Victor Creed was a lonely, lonely man. He had built up, over the years, an
image of a man who didn't need anybody, but the truth was, he did. In fact,
it was a very specific somebody. The idea of relying on somebody else to
remain happy was an idea which had always repelled Victor, but it was just
this which was tearing him up.
Every day was the same. He would be Sabretooth. Victor Creed was dead; it was only Sabretooth. How could Victor Creed exist when he was so weak? Victor Creed was hung up on a certain someone, while Sabretooth was powerful. Victor Creed cried into his pillow at night over a love that could never be requited. Sabretooth would never shed tears, especially not over love, which didn't exist anyway.
But Sabretooth could not completely eclipse Victor. While Sabretooth did anything Magneto asked, there were times when Victor-thoughts shone through. He became destructive. That was expected. He had a reputation for throwing rages and smashing everything around him up. A mirror could be broken in a way which looked entirely as if it had merely been destroyed in his anger, when in fact it was his first port of call. Victor hated the sight of himself. Hated the hair. Hated the teeth. Hated the face. How could anyone ever love him?
And then there was the self destruction. Simple things; riding too fast on his motorbike. Drinking too much. Cutting. None of these held any real bearing due to Victor's powers. Fucking healing ability. It could have all ended so much earlier if it wasn't for that. A little accidental death.
Perhaps slain by Wolverine.
Ha. That would be ironic.
Wolverine was precisely the cause of Victor's misery at this very moment in time. It wasn't down to their feud, which had been going on for so long that even Victor forgot what the cause was. In fact it was quite the opposite. Victor had become obsessed with Wolverine. It was no longer that fanatical urge to kill; quite the opposite. Victor wanted to wake up in those strong arms, and kiss that angry little face. The feeling permeated every bone in his body, something the healing factor could not fix. Victor Creed, in love with his enemy. It would have been laughable were it not so devastating.
Of all the people to be in love with, why Wolverine?
Victor had no idea. He hadn't asked for it to happen. It just had. Somewhere between all those mindless battles, he had fallen in love. And suddenly, when leaping on top of the guy, he had wanted to kiss him, not kill him. But then there was the desire to kill the thing he loved the most. That would be the only way to end these feelings. No more Logan, no more feeling like such a fool. He could hardly be in love if there was nothing to be in love with.
Victor tried his hardest to stop these circular thoughts. Once again they were attacking; they always did as he tried to fall asleep. The face haunting his thoughts. So beautiful. So completely out of reach. If Wolverine could see him now, he would laugh. Pathetic, pathetic Victor Creed. Sad little Victor Creed who was crying again.
Men didn't cry. Only faggots cried.
And here was Victor Creed sobbing like a little baby girl into his pillow. Over Logan.
The rage was boiling up in him yet again, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he would have to break something. And there wasn't much left to break in Victor's little rented room. In fact, he was sleeping under his coat on the floor, as in a previous rage, he had completely eviscerated the bed. The cupboard door was hanging off, not that there had been much in it in the first place. There was a huge crack in the window. A hole in the wall where he had punched it.
But rage does not see past these silly little details. Victor rose from his spot on the floor and took out all the hate inside him on the small hot plate on which he warmed up his tins of spaghetti. The thing was in absolute pieces by the time he was done kicking it.
It was only afterwards, sitting, spent, on the floor, panting hard, that Victor was cross with himself. Now he would be stuck eating cold food. His deaf landlady would one day come up to the room and notice what a mess he had made. He would be thrown out. Homeless and miserable. Magneto didn't give a shit. Nowhere to live. This dump was cold, but at least it was a roof over his head.
With these normal worries, Victor fell asleep. He was plagued, as always, by dreams of his love, and woke up many times in the night aroused, fearful, happy, and angry.
Next morning, he breakfasted on a cold tin of spaghetti, for that was the only food he ever seemed to have in his dank little room. He left his room, as usual, and was stopped, as usual, by Mrs P.
"Good morning, Victor," she said.
"Morning, Mrs P.," he replied.
"Did you sleep well, Victor?"
"Like a log," Victor lied effortlessly. It was the same every morning. She never could hear him anyway.
"That's a pity, go and see my doctor. He could give you something for that, Victor. And then you can sleep well."
"Thank you, Mrs P. I'll keep that in mind."
"No, no, please give it a try."
"Bye, Mrs P. I'm off to work."
And so, another day of the pathetic life of Victor Creed.
Every day was the same. He would be Sabretooth. Victor Creed was dead; it was only Sabretooth. How could Victor Creed exist when he was so weak? Victor Creed was hung up on a certain someone, while Sabretooth was powerful. Victor Creed cried into his pillow at night over a love that could never be requited. Sabretooth would never shed tears, especially not over love, which didn't exist anyway.
But Sabretooth could not completely eclipse Victor. While Sabretooth did anything Magneto asked, there were times when Victor-thoughts shone through. He became destructive. That was expected. He had a reputation for throwing rages and smashing everything around him up. A mirror could be broken in a way which looked entirely as if it had merely been destroyed in his anger, when in fact it was his first port of call. Victor hated the sight of himself. Hated the hair. Hated the teeth. Hated the face. How could anyone ever love him?
And then there was the self destruction. Simple things; riding too fast on his motorbike. Drinking too much. Cutting. None of these held any real bearing due to Victor's powers. Fucking healing ability. It could have all ended so much earlier if it wasn't for that. A little accidental death.
Perhaps slain by Wolverine.
Ha. That would be ironic.
Wolverine was precisely the cause of Victor's misery at this very moment in time. It wasn't down to their feud, which had been going on for so long that even Victor forgot what the cause was. In fact it was quite the opposite. Victor had become obsessed with Wolverine. It was no longer that fanatical urge to kill; quite the opposite. Victor wanted to wake up in those strong arms, and kiss that angry little face. The feeling permeated every bone in his body, something the healing factor could not fix. Victor Creed, in love with his enemy. It would have been laughable were it not so devastating.
Of all the people to be in love with, why Wolverine?
Victor had no idea. He hadn't asked for it to happen. It just had. Somewhere between all those mindless battles, he had fallen in love. And suddenly, when leaping on top of the guy, he had wanted to kiss him, not kill him. But then there was the desire to kill the thing he loved the most. That would be the only way to end these feelings. No more Logan, no more feeling like such a fool. He could hardly be in love if there was nothing to be in love with.
Victor tried his hardest to stop these circular thoughts. Once again they were attacking; they always did as he tried to fall asleep. The face haunting his thoughts. So beautiful. So completely out of reach. If Wolverine could see him now, he would laugh. Pathetic, pathetic Victor Creed. Sad little Victor Creed who was crying again.
Men didn't cry. Only faggots cried.
And here was Victor Creed sobbing like a little baby girl into his pillow. Over Logan.
The rage was boiling up in him yet again, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he would have to break something. And there wasn't much left to break in Victor's little rented room. In fact, he was sleeping under his coat on the floor, as in a previous rage, he had completely eviscerated the bed. The cupboard door was hanging off, not that there had been much in it in the first place. There was a huge crack in the window. A hole in the wall where he had punched it.
But rage does not see past these silly little details. Victor rose from his spot on the floor and took out all the hate inside him on the small hot plate on which he warmed up his tins of spaghetti. The thing was in absolute pieces by the time he was done kicking it.
It was only afterwards, sitting, spent, on the floor, panting hard, that Victor was cross with himself. Now he would be stuck eating cold food. His deaf landlady would one day come up to the room and notice what a mess he had made. He would be thrown out. Homeless and miserable. Magneto didn't give a shit. Nowhere to live. This dump was cold, but at least it was a roof over his head.
With these normal worries, Victor fell asleep. He was plagued, as always, by dreams of his love, and woke up many times in the night aroused, fearful, happy, and angry.
Next morning, he breakfasted on a cold tin of spaghetti, for that was the only food he ever seemed to have in his dank little room. He left his room, as usual, and was stopped, as usual, by Mrs P.
"Good morning, Victor," she said.
"Morning, Mrs P.," he replied.
"Did you sleep well, Victor?"
"Like a log," Victor lied effortlessly. It was the same every morning. She never could hear him anyway.
"That's a pity, go and see my doctor. He could give you something for that, Victor. And then you can sleep well."
"Thank you, Mrs P. I'll keep that in mind."
"No, no, please give it a try."
"Bye, Mrs P. I'm off to work."
And so, another day of the pathetic life of Victor Creed.
