Why had Victor walked off? He didn't have a clue. But then these days
nothing was certain except pain. Destroying Wolverine would have been a way
to get over the pain, he knew that. What had stopped his hand? It would
have been ever so slightly healing for Wolverine to suffer pain.
Victor suffered pain every day.
He was angry. The rage was building up inside him, and he knew that when he got like that nobody was safe. Why had he been such a coward? Walking away from one's problems was never the right thing to do. One should always confront one's demons.
Mrs P. had finally noticed the tip that was Victor's room. Bitching at him. Could she not see the fact that Victor was furious and she was putting herself in danger. He should warn her. Tell her to leave him alone for now. Maybe even chuck him out.
"Mrs P., not now."
"And another thing, Mr Creed, I want you to pay for all that damage. I shan't send you away, I would just like to be fully reimbursed. Honestly! It's a good thing I didn't put my sister's old mirror in there, the mess you made of that! Do you honestly feel such behaviour is acceptable? Do you?"
And suddenly the rage took over. As always, everything was shrouded in a red mist as Victor lashed out on the old bitch. Saw the shock on her face as she fell, hit her head. She wasn't dead yet, that would need to be dealt with. Despite the viciousness of his actions, during these rages Victor felt so calm. He was built to do this.
Soon she was dead. Victor knew this because he had completely eviscerated the bitch.
He had killed before. Sometimes in self defence. Sometimes for business. Never without reason. Until now. Yet all death must have a purpose. This death had to have a reason, as did any other.
Making a reason came to Victor as naturally as anything. He had heard of telling the future through the reading of entrails. Might just work.
He squinted long and hard at the organs, but could only see meat.
And finally an image came to him. Wolverine.
*
Victor awoke drenched in sweat. The dream had been disturbing, but he knew that it had been just that: a dream. Very vivid, but it had happened before. Many times before. Wolverine was driving him insane.
He had never been what would be called stable, but as these feelings had manifested, he had been at least vaguely able to function. Life had been simpler back then. And there was no way of going back.
*
Logan didn't dwell too long on what had happened. He never did. Just move on, see what would happen next. And after a day of hard work, it was time to go back to the bar, drink some more, unwind a bit and meet new people. And fuck them. If that didn't happen, he would get morose about Ororo, sit in the kitchen nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Tonight was of the former category. A lovely young male model called Vasily Vukov who spoke little English, and therefore conversation could be kept to a bare minimum. Which was exactly what Logan liked. As little talk as possible.
The guy was amazing with his tongue. Great kisser. Logan couldn't wait to get this one home. It would be a good night. Oh yes.
The walk home was slow. Punctuated by frequent kisses in shop doorways, dark alleyways. Logan thought maybe he wouldn't even get this one back to the mansion. He was certainly ready for action.
The shortcut took longer than going by the roads. It was dark, there were trees, and the kid just knelt down and took Logan in his mouth. Logan's senses began to spin and once again he did not notice an ambush until it was too late. Vasily bolted. And Logan was alone to face his enemy.
Sabretooth had all the usual rage in him, and more. Logan couldn't react the way he usually did. And, in one of those ridiculous fits of drunken inspiration he pushed his mouth against the other mutant's. Kissed him.
To his surprise, Sabretooth responded. Passionately. Desperately.
"You like that, huh, bub? Maybe you want more, you little faggot?" He was greeted by the most ridiculous little yelp from Sabretooth.
And it happened, clothes torn off, breath ripping ragged in the night air. Those fucking PVC trousers took an eternity to remove. Passionate. Better than Logan could have ever expected.
And then they lay together, spent, absently making conversation, and swearing a truce.
Victor suffered pain every day.
He was angry. The rage was building up inside him, and he knew that when he got like that nobody was safe. Why had he been such a coward? Walking away from one's problems was never the right thing to do. One should always confront one's demons.
Mrs P. had finally noticed the tip that was Victor's room. Bitching at him. Could she not see the fact that Victor was furious and she was putting herself in danger. He should warn her. Tell her to leave him alone for now. Maybe even chuck him out.
"Mrs P., not now."
"And another thing, Mr Creed, I want you to pay for all that damage. I shan't send you away, I would just like to be fully reimbursed. Honestly! It's a good thing I didn't put my sister's old mirror in there, the mess you made of that! Do you honestly feel such behaviour is acceptable? Do you?"
And suddenly the rage took over. As always, everything was shrouded in a red mist as Victor lashed out on the old bitch. Saw the shock on her face as she fell, hit her head. She wasn't dead yet, that would need to be dealt with. Despite the viciousness of his actions, during these rages Victor felt so calm. He was built to do this.
Soon she was dead. Victor knew this because he had completely eviscerated the bitch.
He had killed before. Sometimes in self defence. Sometimes for business. Never without reason. Until now. Yet all death must have a purpose. This death had to have a reason, as did any other.
Making a reason came to Victor as naturally as anything. He had heard of telling the future through the reading of entrails. Might just work.
He squinted long and hard at the organs, but could only see meat.
And finally an image came to him. Wolverine.
*
Victor awoke drenched in sweat. The dream had been disturbing, but he knew that it had been just that: a dream. Very vivid, but it had happened before. Many times before. Wolverine was driving him insane.
He had never been what would be called stable, but as these feelings had manifested, he had been at least vaguely able to function. Life had been simpler back then. And there was no way of going back.
*
Logan didn't dwell too long on what had happened. He never did. Just move on, see what would happen next. And after a day of hard work, it was time to go back to the bar, drink some more, unwind a bit and meet new people. And fuck them. If that didn't happen, he would get morose about Ororo, sit in the kitchen nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Tonight was of the former category. A lovely young male model called Vasily Vukov who spoke little English, and therefore conversation could be kept to a bare minimum. Which was exactly what Logan liked. As little talk as possible.
The guy was amazing with his tongue. Great kisser. Logan couldn't wait to get this one home. It would be a good night. Oh yes.
The walk home was slow. Punctuated by frequent kisses in shop doorways, dark alleyways. Logan thought maybe he wouldn't even get this one back to the mansion. He was certainly ready for action.
The shortcut took longer than going by the roads. It was dark, there were trees, and the kid just knelt down and took Logan in his mouth. Logan's senses began to spin and once again he did not notice an ambush until it was too late. Vasily bolted. And Logan was alone to face his enemy.
Sabretooth had all the usual rage in him, and more. Logan couldn't react the way he usually did. And, in one of those ridiculous fits of drunken inspiration he pushed his mouth against the other mutant's. Kissed him.
To his surprise, Sabretooth responded. Passionately. Desperately.
"You like that, huh, bub? Maybe you want more, you little faggot?" He was greeted by the most ridiculous little yelp from Sabretooth.
And it happened, clothes torn off, breath ripping ragged in the night air. Those fucking PVC trousers took an eternity to remove. Passionate. Better than Logan could have ever expected.
And then they lay together, spent, absently making conversation, and swearing a truce.
