In this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure, you're a freelance guard assigned to watch Sabretooth -- and you're about to learn just how powerful he is...
🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices!
[Playthrough by Anonymous]
CW: NON-CON/DUB-CON, KIDNAPPING, BABY-TRAPPING
You don't speak again.
The next three hours pass in near-total silence. You watch. He watches you watch. The only sounds are the hum of the magnetic locks, the occasional rustle of your tactical gear as you shift your weight, and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
At 01:58, you prep the syringe. He watches your hands move—checking the vial, drawing the dose, tapping out air bubbles. His nostrils flare when you approach, but he doesn't speak. Doesn't flinch.
The needle slides into the injection port on his restraint cuff. You depress the plunger. His jaw tightens. A muscle in his neck jumps. But his eyes stay on yours the whole time, amber and unblinking, until the sedative drags them closed.
He's out before you pull the needle free.
You log the administration. Check his vitals. Everything stabilizes. The shift ends at 06:00. You walk out without looking back.
The next night, you're assigned to him again.
And the next.
And the next.
It becomes a routine. You enter. He's awake—always awake now, the sedation window shortened after your report. You check restraints. He makes a comment. You don't always answer. Sometimes you do. The comments get less taunting, more observational.
"Your hair's wet. Raining outside?"
"You're favoring your left leg. Old injury?"
"You smell like coffee. Cheap stuff."
You learn his rhythms. He learns yours. The silence between you becomes a kind of conversation.
Two weeks in, you bring him a protein bar from the vending machine upstairs. You slide it through the meal slot without comment.
He stares at it for a full minute before picking it up. Sniffs it. Takes a bite. Chews slowly.
"Peanut butter," he says. "Huh."
He eats the whole thing. Licks the wrapper clean.
"Thanks."
You don't acknowledge it. But you bring him one the next night too.
Four weeks. He's sitting forward in the restraints when you enter, head tilted like he's listening to something far away.
"Storm's comin'," he says. "Big one. You feel that pressure in your ears?"
You don't. But an hour later, the building groans as the first thunderclap hits.
He grins at you through the glass. "Told ya."
Six weeks.
The staffing memo comes through at the start of your shift. Critical shortage due to flu outbreak. Single guard rotation on Sublevel 2 tonight. Maintain standard protocols. Radio backup available but response time may be delayed.
You read it twice. Then you clip your radio to your belt, check your taser, and push through the reinforced door.
Sabretooth is already looking at you when you enter. His nostrils flare.
"Quiet out there," he says. His voice is low. Thoughtful. "Real quiet."
You don't answer. You set your gear down and pull up the tablet. The biometrics are stable. Sedation window in three hours.
But something in the air has changed. The hum of the magnetic locks sounds thinner. The room feels larger. Emptier.
And Sabretooth is watching you with an expression you haven't seen before.
Not amused. Not curious.
Waiting.
You slide the protein bar through the meal slot. Victor catches it one-handed, his eyes never leaving you.
"Quiet night," he says, unwrapping it slowly. "Just you and me."
You nod, checking the restraints. They look intact. Magnetic seals green. But something about the way he's sitting—too relaxed, too still—makes the back of your neck prickle.
"You're due for sedation in five," you say, pulling the syringe from the tray.
"Already?" He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Time flies when you're havin' fun."
You approach, needle ready. He doesn't move. Just watches you with those amber eyes, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Your fingers brush the injection port.
And then his wrist twists.
The restraint doesn't break—it unravels. Metal groans, bolts shear, and the thick alloy band peels open like foil. His hand closes around your wrist before you can pull back.
The syringe clatters to the floor.
"Oops," Victor murmurs, his smile widening. "Looks like someone skimped on maintenance."
You go still.
Every muscle locks. Your breath catches in your throat, but you don't pull. Don't struggle. Your wrist is trapped in his grip—his fingers are thick as steel cables, warm and impossibly strong. You can feel the pulse in your own wrist hammering against his palm.
Victor's smile doesn't fade. It deepens.
"Smart," he murmurs. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, right over the vein. A slow, deliberate caress. "Real smart, Carter."
He doesn't tighten his grip. Doesn't yank you closer. Just holds you there, watching your face with those predator's eyes.
"I could break this," he says conversationally. "Snap it like a twig. You know that, right?"
You nod once. Short. Sharp.
"But you're not tryin' to run." His head tilts. "Why?"
"Wouldn't get far," you say, your voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding your system.
He chuckles—a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into your bones.
"No," he agrees. "You wouldn't."
His other hand comes up. The second restraint peels open with the same metallic groan, bolts shearing clean. He flexes his fingers, then reaches for your face.
You don't flinch.
His knuckles brush your cheek. Rough. Calloused. The touch is almost gentle.
"You smell different tonight," he says, leaning in. His breath is warm against your skin. "Not just fear. Something else."
His nose trails along your jawline. A slow, deliberate inhale.
"Anticipation."
You stay perfectly still. Your breath is shallow, controlled. Your wrist remains in his grip, your body locked in place against the wall.
Victor’s smile softens. Not into something gentle—never gentle—but into something more focused. More interested.
His thumb keeps stroking your wrist. Up and down, over the thin skin where your pulse thunders.
“You’re not screamin’,” he observes. His voice is quiet. Almost intimate. “Not cryin’. Not beggin’.”
He leans in closer. His nose brushes your temple. Another deep inhale.
“Adrenaline’s spikin’. I can smell it. Taste it.” His tongue flicks out, just barely touching your skin. “But you’re holdin’ it together. Like you’re waitin’ for instructions.”
His free hand comes up and cups the back of your head. Not yanking. Just holding. His fingers tangle in your ponytail.
“I like that,” he murmurs against your ear. “I like that a lot.”
Then his grip on your wrist shifts. He doesn’t let go—he turns your hand over, palm up. His thumb presses into the center, a slow, circular massage.
“You ever been hunted, Carter?” he asks, his breath warm against your neck.
You don’t answer.
“Course you haven’t. Humans don’t get hunted. Not really.” His voice drops. “But you know what happens when somethin’ stops bein’ afraid?”
He waits. You stay silent.
“It becomes a challenge,” he says. “And challenges… they’re fun.”
His other hand slides down from your hair, over your shoulder, down your side. It stops at your hip. His fingers curl into the fabric of your tactical pants.
“Gonna take these off now,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You gonna try and stop me?”
“Is this how you get your kicks, Creed?”
Victor pauses. His hand stays on your hip, fingers curled into the fabric of your tactical pants. His head tilts, and for a second he looks genuinely surprised.
Then he laughs—a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours.
“Kicks?” he repeats, like the word is foreign. “Sweetheart, this ain’t about kicks.”
His thumb strokes your hipbone through the material. Slow. Deliberate.
“This is about hunger.”
He leans in until his forehead nearly touches yours. His breath is warm, carrying the faint scent of protein bar and something wilder—copper and musk.
“You been sittin’ in this room with me for six weeks,” he murmurs. “Bringin’ me snacks. Talkin’ to me like I’m a person. Not a monster. Not an animal.” His amber eyes hold yours. “You know what that does to a predator?”
You don’t answer. Your pulse hammers against his palm.
“It makes ’em curious,” he says. “Makes ’em wonder what you taste like.”
His free hand comes up and cups your jaw. His thumb brushes your lower lip.
“So yeah. I’m gonna take these off. And you’re gonna let me. ’Cause you’re curious too.”
He smiles. All fangs.
“Ain’t you?”
“Victor, this isn’t you,” you say, your voice low but steady. “You’re better than this.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. His expression doesn’t change—still that predatory focus, still that faint smile. But something flickers behind his eyes. Something cold.
Then he laughs.
It’s not a nice sound. It’s sharp. Bitter.
“Better than this?” he repeats, his thumb still pressed against your lip. “Carter, you really think I’m some tragic monster waitin’ for a redemption arc?”
His grip on your jaw tightens. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you he could.
“I ain’t better than anything,” he says, his voice dropping to a growl. “I’m exactly what I am. A predator. And you?” He leans in until his nose brushes yours. “You’re prey that’s been walkin’ into my den every night for six weeks.”
His other hand yanks at the fastenings of your tactical pants. The fabric tears. You don’t fight. Don’t move.
“You wanna know what I am?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your cheek. “I’m the thing that happens when you forget the world ain’t civilized. I’m the hunger at the end of the chain.”
He pulls the ruined pants down your hips. The air in the cell is cold against your skin.
“And you,” he says, his eyes dragging down your body, “you’re the reminder.”
His hand slides between your thighs. Rough. Possessive.
“So don’t tell me I’m better than this.” His fingers press inward. “This is all I’ve ever been.”
“You don’t have to do this, Victor.”
His hand stills between your thighs. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second you think you see something shift—a flicker of something that isn’t hunger or amusement. Something almost like recognition.
Then it’s gone.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice low. “I don’t have to.”
His fingers withdraw. He leans back, just enough to look you over—your torn pants, your exposed skin, the way you’re standing there not fighting, not begging, just… waiting.
“I want to.”
He says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world. No shame. No justification.
His hands come up to your shoulders. He pushes you back against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to pin you there. His body follows, crowding into your space until you’re surrounded by him—the heat of his chest, the scent of his skin, the sheer mass of him.
“And you?” he murmurs, his mouth hovering near your ear. “What do you want, Carter?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. One hand slides down your side, over your hip, and grips the back of your thigh. He lifts your leg, hooking it over his hip. The movement is startlingly intimate—your bodies pressed together, your core aligned with his.
You can feel him through his bodysuit. Hard. Massive.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, his breath hot against your neck. “Say the word. I’ll stop.”
But his other hand is already working at the fastenings of his suit, and his eyes are watching yours, waiting to see if you’ll lie.
You lean forward and kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s not hesitant. You press your mouth against his, teeth clacking, and you bite his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. His breath hitches—a sharp, surprised sound—and then his hands are in your hair, yanking your head back to deepen the kiss.
He growls into your mouth, low and possessive, and his tongue pushes past your lips. He tastes like blood and hunger. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands coming up to claw at his shoulders, digging into the thick muscle beneath his suit.
He breaks the kiss, panting, his amber eyes wide with something that isn’t anger. It’s shock. Delight.
“Well, fuck me,” he breathes, a grin spreading across his face. “You do have teeth.”
He doesn’t give you time to answer. He slams you back against the wall, his mouth crashing down on yours again. One hand rips the rest of your pants down your legs; the other tears open the front of his bodysuit.
His cock springs free, thick and heavy and already leaking. He’s huge—impossibly so, the head flushed dark and veined, curving up toward his stomach. You stare at it for a second, your breath catching.
Victor doesn’t wait. He hooks your other leg over his hip, spreading you open, and lines himself up. The blunt head presses against your entrance, and you gasp.
“Still wanna stop?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough.
You shake your head.
He drives into you in one brutal thrust.
You dig your nails into his back, scoring deep lines through the fabric of his bodysuit. He grunts—a sound of pure pleasure—and slams into you harder, driving you back against the concrete wall with each thrust.
Your hips meet his, matching his rhythm stroke for stroke. It’s rough, frantic, wet. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes in the bare cell, mixed with his low growls and your ragged breaths.
“That’s it,” he snarls against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Fight back. Show me what you got.”
You bite his shoulder in answer, tasting sweat and the faint metallic tang of adamantium beneath his skin. He laughs, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours.
One of his hands slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. He presses down, circles hard, and you cry out, your back arching off the wall.
“Come for me, Carter,” he orders, his voice rough with need. “I wanna feel you clamp down on my cock.”
You’re close—so close—the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. Your legs tighten around his hips, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his thrusts turning erratic.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gonna make me—”
You come before he can finish. A sharp, blinding wave of pleasure crashes through you, your cunt clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. He lets out a raw, guttural roar and follows you over the edge, his hips grinding against yours as he empties himself deep inside you.
Hot cum floods you, thick and endless. He keeps thrusting through it, milking every last drop, until you’re both panting and shaking against the wall.
He doesn’t pull out. Just stays buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours.
“Round one,” he murmurs, a feral grin spreading across his face. “You ready for round two?”
“I’m not done with you yet,” you growl, and you shove against his chest.
For a second, he doesn’t move—just stares at you with wide, amused eyes. Then he lets you push him back, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound. You drop to the floor, spin, and drive your shoulder into his midsection, trying to take him down.
He goes with the motion, laughing as he hits the concrete. But he doesn’t stay down. He rolls, grabbing you by the waist and flipping you beneath him in one smooth motion. Now you’re on your back, staring up at him as he kneels between your thighs.
“Cute,” he says, grinning down at you. “Real cute.”
He leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of your head. His cock rests heavy against your stomach, already hard again.
“You wanna be on top?” he murmurs, lowering his head until his lips brush yours. “You can be on top next time. But right now…”
He slides down your body, his mouth trailing kisses over your breasts, your ribs, your stomach. He doesn’t stop until his face is between your thighs.
“Right now,” he says, his breath hot against your soaked cunt, “I’m gonna taste what I just put in you.”
His tongue drags through your folds, slow and deliberate. You gasp, your hips jerking off the floor.
“Fuck,” you breathe.
He chuckles, the vibration making you shudder. “That’s the idea.”
“Get up here and fuck me,” you snarl, tangling your fingers in his shaggy blonde hair and yanking his head up.
Victor’s eyes flash with dark amusement. He lets you pull him up your body, his mouth wet and glistening. He doesn’t resist—just follows the tug of your grip until he’s hovering over you again, his cock pressing against your entrance.
“Demandin’,” he murmurs, lowering himself until his weight pins you to the cold floor. “I like it.”
He pushes inside you in one smooth, deep stroke. You gasp, your back arching off the concrete. He’s even bigger this time—your cunt still fluttering from your last climax, stretched tight around him.
“That’s it,” he growls, setting a brutal, steady rhythm. “Take it. All of it.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. Your nails score fresh lines across his shoulders, and he groans, his hips driving harder.
“You wanna be in charge?” he pants against your ear. “Then fuck me back. Show me you can keep up.”
You meet each thrust, grinding up into him, taking him deeper. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the cell, mixed with his ragged breaths and your choked moans. He’s everywhere—his scent, his heat, the sheer overwhelming presence of him.
One of his hands slides between you again, his thumb finding your clit. He rubs tight, fast circles, and you cry out, your vision blurring.
“Come for me again,” he orders, his voice rough. “I wanna feel you milk my cock dry.”
You’re already close—the pleasure coiling tight, burning through your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, and he lets out a low, approving growl.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Almost there.”
Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
🎮interactive fanfic "Teeth Behind Glass" by Juicebox
a/n: I know this is more a Nightcrawler focused blog, but I will still write a few other X-men characters just because. And since I did a SFW of Sabretooth, I wanted to do a NSFW one too. So here he is, in all his bloody glory. I was a little more vulgar in this one than in the Nightcrawler one, but it fit for this character. As mentioned in previous posts, I try to mix multiple depictions of the character so it's not just based on a single one. So I take inspiration from comics, shows, and films. I might revamp this later. I hope you enjoy <3
Minors DNI. 18+ below the cut.
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex):
Sabretooth doesn't exactly get the whole aftercare thing, I mean, he isn't really known for his gentle nature.
When you first get together and fool around, he probably is the type to fuck and leave, or make you leave. He's blunt; he straight up tells you when you're done to get out or he will leave your space. He treats sex almost like an animal, one purpose: to fuck and then he will go on his merry way.
However if you continue your little relationship, then he might slowly start to understand what to do. He isn't typical by any means. You will be left with claw marks and bites, and you will bleed. It's unavoidable, those claws and teeth? Come on.
He wouldn't treat them normally, but he would lick them, his saliva has an antiseptic aspect to it, so he is 'cleaning' your wounds that he left but in his own way. It might feel weird, but just let him do his thing. That's probably the closest he will get to being gentle anyway. If they are deep enough he might tend a little more but honestly he feels like he does enough by cleaning them with his tongue.
Sabretooth is also generally pretty happy with himself after sex. He would be calmed down a bit from his norm, because he satisfied something primal in his nature. This might be one of the only times you can convince him to lay still for a period of time.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):
Sabretooth obviously loves his own claws, his weapon of choice on enemies and on you. He loves making you shiver when he drags them down your body with just enough pressure to make you squirm.
But he also has a big ego, so...he is pretty proud of his size.
He'd like your thighs and ass, kneading them like a cat and pawing at you every chance he got. He grabs your legs and loves how soft you feel, and he likes smacking your backside and watching his hips drill into you.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically):
Prepare for a lot of it. He is messy and doesn't give a shit about what kind of mess he makes. Inside, outside, doesn't matter to him. He likes to spread it around your face if he shoots his load onto you, or likes watching you open your mouth and show him what mess he made on your tongue.
Can't hate a good creampie either, he loves filling you up. It fulfills that need that burns in his groin every time you have sex. Every instinct screams at him to bury his cock against your cervix and blow his load directly into your womb.
Or he tries to push as far in your ass as he can, listening to you moan as he fills you up, the head of his dick brushing your g-spot perfectly.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):
He doesn't really have any secrets, he's fairly open about what he likes. But he does have a strong desire towards scents. He doesn't like super perfumed body wash or soaps, he likes the natural smell of things, so he would prefer non-scented soaps rather than the ones that smell sweet or strong.
He likes smelling your groin a lot, especially in the mornings when the scent is the strongest naturally. You always wake up and feel him tugging your legs open so he can smell you. It does typically lead to other things...
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?):
He absolutely knows what he's doing. He's had plenty of partners in the past, so he knows just what to do in the bedroom.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying):
Doggy feels most natural for him. He likes mounting you from behind and he can get a good grip on you when he's pounding into you. He also likes to bite on the back of your neck or your shoulder. Plus he always has a good view before he puts his dick on you.
Sometimes you ride him, gravity helps pull you down on his cock. But you don't get to ride him too often because he doesn't like being on his back for very long. He only has so much self control.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.):
He'll make jokes every now and then, but it's all with the dirty talk he gives you. It's all very intense, and he will tease you a lot.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.):
He's a burly, hairy dude. So you can imagine how he looks down there, pretty untamed, not like that really matters. He doesn't see the point to shaving himself, unless you really, really wanted him to, he probably wouldn't ever do it on his own.
He has a hairy happy trail from his belly button that leads down to his pubic hair. His chest is hairy too, and you like to play with it and curl it around your fingers sometimes, which makes him roll his eyes but you do it anyway.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect):
Sabretooth isn't romantic, he's more of a...let's fuck type of guy. His idea of romance is giving you a real, bloody heart torn straight out of an animal or person. And kissing you if he's all messy with blood from a hunt.
If you accept a lot of his habits, he might adapt and try to do something more typically romantic for you in return, or something that you'd see as romantic, whatever that may be. But don't expect him to completely change who he is to be a super romantic guy. And don't ever tell anyone if he does something like that.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon):
He probably doesn't masturbate a whole lot, he might when he's feeling real pent up, but why would he masturbate when he has you to take care of all his needs?
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks):
Sabretooth is pretty damn kinky, he isn't ashamed about any of his sexual desires and is open with you about them.
He obviously loves predator/prey dynamics, he likes to pretend to hunt you in the woods and when he catches you, he fucks you into the mossy ground. It gets his instincts going and he feels like his cock is on fire when he's hunting you. Plus the sex that comes from 'hunting' you is honestly some of the best you've had. Prey pet names for sure.
Breeding is a huge kink for him. He likes making a mess, but he prefers to bury himself into you and fill you up, regardless if you can get pregnant or not. He will pound multiple loads into you and won't stop until you are squirting it out around his cock.
BDSM is something that's interesting to him, though not every aspect of it. He's a pretty big sadist, so his claws and teeth will definitely mark you up all bloody and you'll be bruised from his hard grip on you thanks to his strength. He'd probably be into impact play, so he'd like to spank you while he's fucking you.
I think he might find bondage fun just because you'd be completely helpless and it can tie into the whole predator/prey play too. Like a little bunny caught in a snare and he stumbles upon you, helpless to the hungry big cat.
I think he probably would have a thing for housewife type of behavior, things that aren't inherently sexual but can turn him on. So cleaning and cooking, bringing him beer or food while he sits back, I don't know I just have a weird feeling he would be into that.
I also think he'd be interested in CNC. It's something that you'd have to talk heavily about, but I think it would be something he would want to try.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do):
He's down to do it anywhere. He doesn't give a shit who hears or sees. But the bedroom is where you two can really let loose. He also likes doing it in the woods, he has a few spots he will take you.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going):
Being submissive around him or showing submissive behavior will catch his attention. The primal part of him picks up on all of that, so speaking to him without eye contact, or when he approaches slightly lowering your head are things he instantly picks up on.
I also think if you make yourself vulnerable on purpose around him, he'd definitely like that. If you display your belly or neck, like laying down or seeming careless if he gets close are things he would eye closely, since most of the people around him (human or mutant) tend to be extremely cautious.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs):
Sabretooth wouldn't really be interested in 'making love.' He's a primal mutant. He would want to give in to all of his desires, and he would want whomever he's sleeping with to do the same.
I don't think he would be into someone who challenges his dominance either. He'd take it as an insult and it would trigger his aggression. I don't see him as being a bottom at all, but that's just my opinion. So he wouldn't have any desire to take that position.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.):
He's going to be pretty selfish, and he absolutely prefers receiving. He loves looking down and seeing you try to take him all in your mouth. It turns him on more knowing you're trying your best but still can't fit all of him. He will tease you and talk dirty the entire time.
"Awe, what's the matter...am I too big for you? Can't fit all of me in that pretty mouth? Don't worry...I'll make it fit."
Prepare for a deepthroat and possible face fuck because he gets a little carried away.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.):
Rough, fast, unforgiving. He might allow you a moment to adjust when he first penetrates you, but he hardly waits long. There is nothing stopping him from going full on wild mode.
He likes to watch you squirm as he pushes deeper and deeper, watching your little hole stretch around him as you whine. He swears he could cum just from listening to you and watching you struggle to fit him.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.):
He can actually cum pretty quick when he knows you're only going to get a few minutes to fuck, so he's down for a quickie, pretty much wherever.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.):
Absolutely. He loves to experiment, especially if he discovers something he hasn't tried before, he'd want to try it out once.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?):
He has enhanced stamina because of his mutation so...he can go for multiple rounds. His period to recover is practically nonexistent, thanks to that mutation.
He can also last a few minutes to much longer. It just depends, but he does prefer multiple rather than dragging out a single long orgasm.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?):
He does not have any toys of his own, other than maybe a few BDSM items like rope or impact things. He doesn't care if his partner has any. In his mind, the toys couldn't compare to him so he could care less.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease):
A lot. Sabretooth is the king of teasing. He can be somewhat selfish, he will deny your orgasm just so when he finally allows you to cum, it feels like a huge wave washing over you rather than just a little jolt of pleasure. He will bring you up to the brink, but never push you over until he's ready for that to happen.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.):
Sabretooth is loud, when he isn't dirty talking you, he is grunting, groaning, snarling. He makes animalistic noises rather than moaning or whining. He knows you like hearing him, so he will lean down and make those noises against your ear, while telling you how good you feel wrapped around his dick.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character):
He purrs after he orgasms, he takes a moment to catch his breath and he will purr against you, but he catches himself before he does it for too long and acts like he wasn't.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes):
Sabretooth is a BIG dude. So, obviously his dick is gonna be big. He's definitely a shower, but he grows a bit when erect.
Flaccid, his bulge is already big, so it can look intimidating before you even get his pants off. His ego always flares up when he sees how you look at his crotch.
Erect he looks near impossible to put into you, but somehow he fits. He's anywhere between 7.5-9 inches. He is girthy too, which is really what you feel when he fucks you.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?):
He has a high sex drive, he can fuck anytime, anywhere. He gets horny from hunting, killing, fighting, all of his instincts flare up and it triggers all of the good feelings in his brain.
Sabretooth would want to fuck a lot, he could do it multiple times a day if possible.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards):
Instantly, he likes to chill out after he has sex. A beer or cigar, then he knocks out. He doesn't bother to shower half the time, so he just likes to kick back and relax.
He might take a shower upon request, but he will complain and grumble about it.
If you like to shower after sex, he would let you go on your own while he has his beer or cigar. He's large, so you and him in the shower together would be awkward and cramped, plus he likes to have a few minutes of space afterwards.
If you are wounded, aka clawed up, he will watch you while you sleep for a bit and then he will fall asleep.
His bed is very soft, it's adorned with furs, pelts, and a thin quilt as the comforter, so you tend to fall asleep after cleaning up.
If you lay on him after, he will run his claws along your back lazily, making you shiver. Knowing those claws to maim and mutilate, but they only graze your skin. It's a strangely gentle gesture that you never reject. He does this until he falls asleep.
Thanks for reading. <3
*BAMF*
dividers by @/adornedwithlight
Cover picture cropped from X-Men Origins Sabretooth #1 (2009)
Does anyone still want a Sabretooth x reader Xmas fic even though it's gonna be hella late? 👀 It's like 60% done. I could also just make it a random winter fic and not necessarily Christmas specific...
The mansion was still waking up when Victor stirred, shifting beneath the heavy blankets that weighed him down. He blinked sluggishly, his golden eyes glassy with fever, his mind slow to process his surroundings.
Everything felt too warm, yet every time he kicked the blankets off, a shiver clawed up his spine, making his muscles ache. His nose twitched, ticklish irritation building deep inside his sinuses.
“Hh’ihhhtCHHhh!—hhtCHh’uhh!”
The sneezes barely sounded like his usual vicious ones. They were quieter, softer, almost restrained.
- Bless you - came a calm voice from nearby.
Victor sniffled, snout slightly pink, and turned his heavy-lidded gaze to see Xavier seated beside the bed once again, his expression unreadable but undeniably patient.
Victor blinked at him, lips parting slightly as if about to speak, but instead, he simply sniffled again, rubbing the tip of his nose against the blanket as if to soothe the persistent itch.
Xavier exhaled softly. - How are you feeling?
Victor grumbled, a deep, almost petulant sound. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough and hoarse:
- Like someone skinned me an’ left me out in the cold.
Xavier gave a knowing nod. - That’s the fever talking. You still have a long way to go.
Victor shifted under the blankets, his body tense but strangely pliant, as if too exhausted to be anything else.
Then the sound of heavy boots approached.
- So, he’s still alive.
Logan’s voice carried a sharp edge, and as he stepped into view, arms crossed, his expression was that of a man who wasn’t ready to trust what he was seeing. Scott followed close behind, his mouth set in a disapproving line, his visor reflecting the room’s dim lighting.
Victor tensed, his shoulders rising instinctively as his gaze darkened for a split second, his body still held onto old instincts.
Logan noticed. He smirked. - Heh. Not so sick you can’t glare, huh?
Victor swallowed down a growl, though his nostrils flared slightly, his breath hitching again.
He barely caught the sneezes in time, nose scrunching, breath quivering afterward.
Jubilee giggled from the doorway. - Okay, you guys have to admit that it’s kinda cute.
Logan shot her a look. - Cute? That’s Sabretooth you’re talkin’ about, kid.
Jubilee shrugged dramatically, walking into the room. - Yeah, yeah, but look at him. All sneezy and sniffly. It’s like… I dunno, seeing a lion with a head cold.
Victor huffed weakly, but he was too fevered to argue. His eyes drifted back to Xavier, as if silently asking for something, though he didn’t quite know what.
- Alright - Hank’s deep voice interrupted. - Enough fun at the sick predator’s expense. It’s time for his medicine.
Victor’s nose wrinkled in an immediate look of distaste.
- No.
Hank didn’t even blink. - Yes.
Victor grumbled, shifting under the covers, clearly trying to bury himself deeper as if the blankets could shield him from this.
Jubilee snickered. - Wow. Big bad Sabretooth is scared of a little medicine?
Victor scowled, but his flush deepened whether from fever or embarrassment was anyone’s guess.
- ’M not scared - he rasped. - I just don’t want it. Taste like shit.
- Too bad - Hank said simply, holding up a small measuring cup filled with thick, syrupy liquid. - Because you need it.
Victor glowered, but his body betrayed him with another set of shivers, his body curling slightly inward.
Jubilee, ever the mischief-maker, grinned and held up something small in her palm.
- Hey, furball. If you take your medicine, I’ll give you candy.
Victor blinked at her, fever-dazed and confused. -...Candy?
Jubilee nodded, wiggling her fingers. - Yeah. A piece of caramel. Bet you haven’t had one of these in forever.
Victor’s nose twitched, but his expression remained wary.
- ...I don’t trust you.
Jubilee sighed dramatically. - Geez, you’re so paranoid. - She popped a caramel into her mouth, then held out another one in her open palm, deliberately making it look as non-threatening as possible. - See? Just candy. No tricks.
Victor’s golden eyes narrowed, then flickered to the medicine Hank was still holding. He exhaled sharply through his pink-tinted nostrils, then, with clear reluctance, grabbed the cup, knocked back the medicine in one go, and grimaced hard.
Jubilee giggled. - Okay, okay, good boy.
Victor scowled. - Don’t call me that.
But he still reached out, his large hand tentatively taking the candy from her palm, not snatching, but just barely brushing against her fingers as he did.
Jubilee smirked. - See? That wasn’t so bad.
Victor huffed, the caramel already between his teeth. He chewed slowly, the sticky sweetness clearly catching him off guard. His ears twitched slightly, as if the sensation was foreign but… not unpleasant.
Hank sighed, amused. - Well. I suppose that works as motivation.
Logan, still leaning against the wall, shook his head. - This is ridiculous.
Scott nodded in agreement. - It’s dangerous.
But Xavier, calm as ever, simply placed a gentle hand on Victor’s shoulder. - He’s not a threat right now.
Victor, to everyone’s silent surprise, leaned ever so slightly into the touch.
Not much. Just enough for Xavier to notice.
Jubilee, grinning, whispered - Told you he’s turning into a kitten.
Victor was too fevered and too exhausted to argue. Instead, he closed his eyes, caramel still melting on his tongue, as warmth, not just from the fever, but from something else entirely, settled over him. Voices around him faded into the background. His fevered mind drifted in and out of lucidity, the taste of caramel still lingering on his tongue.
Victor hadn’t been touched with kindness in a long time.
He didn’t know what to do with it.
Hank was methodical, calm, and impossibly patient, acting as though there was nothing unusual about caring for Sabretooth. But then...
Charles.
Victor didn’t react outwardly, but something in his chest twisted. Charles wheeled closer, his expression unreadable, but his presence in Victor’s mind was gentle. Cautious.
Victor, still flushed with fever, sniffled against the lingering congestion in his sinuses. His nose twitched.
Hhh'RSHHhhhuuhh!
He barely turned in time, muffling the sneeze into his blanket.
Charles didn’t comment on it.
Didn’t comment on the mess Victor had become.
Instead, his voice was quiet.
- You’re not used to being cared for, are you?
Victor tensed.
His throat worked. - What the hell kinda question is that?
Charles tilted his head. - An honest one.
Victor scowled. Looked away.
Charles sighed. - Logan doesn’t trust this. Neither does Scott. They have every reason not to.
Victor grunted. - Then why the hell are you here?
- Because you are sick. You are suffering. And no one deserves to be left alone in that.
Victor’s jaw tightened.
Charles studied him, then spoke again, softer this time. - I can sense how much this frightens you.
Victor jerked. - I ain’t scared.
- Not of us - Charles agreed. - But of… this. Vulnerability. Your own body betraying you.
Victor didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t have one.
Charles sighed, voice dipping into something almost paternal. - You don’t have to fight right now, Victor.
Victor swallowed.
Charles waited.
Finally, Victor let out a low, exhausted breath.
- ...I don’t know how.
He hadn’t meant to say it.
But the words were out.
Hanging in the air between them.
Something in Charles’ expression softened.
Slowly, carefully, he reached forward.
Victor flinched, but Charles didn’t pull away.
He only placed a steady, warm hand on Victor’s arm.
It wasn’t much.
But Victor’s chest ached.
Not from illness.
From something else.
Something that, just for this moment, he wasn’t ready to run from.
Victor stirred, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavy on his limbs. His fever still simmered, and every breath scraped against his throat like sandpaper. He shifted slightly, only to be interrupted by a sharp tickle flaring in his sinuses. His nostrils twitched, pink and sensitive from irritation.
Hhh—hrrSCHHhht! Hh’RASSCHhht!! The sneezes burst from him, powerful yet oddly muffled, as if his body didn’t have the strength to put its usual force behind them.
From across the room, Jubilee snorted. - Okay, tell me that wasn’t cute.
Victor growled weakly, sniffling thickly as Hank ever the dedicated doctor, adjusted his glasses and approached the bedside.
- Bless you - Xavier said gently.
Victor only grumbled, blinking bleary golden eyes as Hank pulled on his gloves. - Alright, Victor, let’s have a look at that throat. You were complaining about soreness earlier - he said, his tone professional but kind. - I have a strong suspicion it isn’t faring much better than your sinuses.
Victor barely had time to register what was happening before Hank’s fingers gently pressed under his jaw. He flinched, instinctively baring his fangs in warning, but Hank, ever patient simply waited.
- Open up, please - Hank said smoothly.
Victor huffed through his nose but complied. His mouth parted, and Hank carefully angled a small flashlight toward the back of his throat.
The moment the light hit his inflamed tonsils, Victor grimaced and let out a hoarse, involuntary whine. His claws clenched at the blanket draped over him, and he quickly snapped his mouth shut.
Hank sighed. - Yes, as I suspected, your throat is raw. Likely worsened by the fever and irritation from all that sneezing. - He reached for a bottle of medicine. - This should help soothe it.
Jubilee grinned as she perched on the foot of the bed. - Man, his nose is so pink.
Victor glared at her, but his expression lacked any real menace. Jubilee only giggled, kicking her feet playfully.
From the doorway, Bobby leaned against the frame, arms crossed. - So, what’s the plan now? He’s still burning up like a furnace.
Xavier smiled knowingly. - A warm meal would do him good.
At the mere mention of food, Bobby’s stomach let out a loud growl.
Jubilee burst into laughter. - Oh man, perfect timing.
Victor would’ve mocked the kid if not for the inconvenient twist of hunger gnawing at his own stomach. He hadn’t eaten much, and the fever had sapped whatever energy he had left.
Scott, who had been watching silently, tilted his head. - Yeah, well, I doubt we have any raw meat lying around for him - His tone was laced with sarcasm.
Storm crossed her arms, arching a brow. - Comfort food is what he needs.
Logan let out a low chuckle. - Yeah, and somethin’ tells me his comfort food is a bloody steak.
Victor didn’t react, keeping his expression blank, but Xavier who had been quietly observing, knew better. He could feel the faintest flicker of longing in Victor’s mind, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness.
With careful precision, Xavier brushed against that thought. It was barely there, a fleeting memory of warmth, a scent that lingered in the back of Victor’s mind.
Cinnamon. Not just cinnamon, cinnamon buns.
Soft, golden, sticky with sugar.
But not plain. No, the ones Victor craved had something extra, a swirl of strawberry jam tucked into the center.
Xavier’s lips curled into a soft smile.
- Oh, my world... - he chuckled - Really, my boy?
Victor stiffened ever so slightly. His eyes flickered toward Xavier, suspicious yet unreadable.
Jubilee leaned in. - What’s the Professor up to?
Xavier simply wheeled his chair closer, his voice light with amusement. - Victor, would you like something sweet?
Victor grunted, looking away. - Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.
Xavier merely chuckled. - Mm. I see... He turned toward Storm - Would you mind assisting me in the kitchen?
Storm smiled knowingly. - Of course, Professor.
Victor closed his eyes, exhaling sharply, but Xavier didn’t miss the way his ears twitched ever so slightly at the sound of footsteps leaving for the kitchen.
Even in his fevered state, some part of him was listening.
Waiting.
Wanting.
The scent hit him first.
Warm, rich cinnamon, thick in the air, blending with the sugary warmth of freshly baked dough. Even through the fog of congestion and fever, Victor’s nose twitched, nostrils flaring slightly.
Jubilee, who had been watching him like a hawk, smirked. - Oh-ho, he smells it.
Storm, who had just walked in with a tray, gave a small, amused smile and set the tray down on the small table beside Victor’s bed. The scent intensified, and Victor’s stomach betrayed him with a faint rumble.
Bobby smirked - Hah! Busted.
Victor ignored him, his eyes flicking to the plate as Xavier lifted it with a small, knowing smile. The golden-brown pastries were still warm, their sugary glaze glistening slightly. And just barely, peeking through the swirled layers, was the telltale deep red of strawberry jam. Victor’s fingers twitched.
Jubilee tilted her head. - Whoa, wait a minute—hold on. Did he actually want this?!
Xavier’s smile deepened. - One could say I had an educated guess.
Victor said nothing, but the way his eyes lingered on the plate was all the confirmation they needed.
Hank stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. - Given his throat condition, I’d recommend something warm and easy to eat. This is actually good. But don't feed him too much sugar tho.
Jubilee nudged Victor playfully. - Well, go on, big guy.
But then Xavier simply lifted one of the buns, tore it in half, and extended it toward him. - Allow me.
Victor stared at him.
Logan, from his spot in the doorway, let out a sharp laugh. - Oh, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.
Victor ignored him. He ignored all of them.
Instead, he exhaled quietly, then, with slow, deliberate reluctance, leaned in and took a bite. The warmth, the cinnamon, the gentle sweetness of the jam, it all melted into his mouth, familiar and comforting in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
Xavier’s eyes softened. - There we are.
Victor chewed slowly, his fevered body sagging just slightly, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself be taken care of, barely noticing the room around him anymore. The cinnamon bun sat warm in his stomach, his fever making the heat of it all the more comforting. His eyelids felt heavy, his body sluggish, but he still finished the pastry, licking a bit of jam off his finger absentmindedly.
Xavier, ever patient, simply reached for a napkin and gently dabbed a crumb from Sabretooth’s chin.
- There now - he said softly. - That wasn’t so terrible, was it?
Victor grunted. - Not the worst thing I’ve been through.
Creed had never thought much about Professor’s voice before. But in his fevered haze, he realized it had a quality that was almost… soothing. There was patience in it. The kind of patience he had never really been on the receiving end of before.
It made his instincts stir in a strange way. Not fight-or-flight. Not aggression. Just… something else. Something unfamiliar. A quiet huff escaped him before he could stop it. Xavier chuckled. - I’d say that’s a sign of contentment.
Victor muttered something under his breath. Logan, still leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, snorted. - Purring like a housecat. That’s rich.
Sabretooth grumbled, but Xavier merely gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. He wasn’t used to this. The warmth, the quiet reassurances, the way someone was touching him without any hint of malice.
The professor’s voice was so smooth, so steady, that Victor found himself leaning into it before he even realized what he was doing. Xavier, ever patient, simply let it happen. As Creed's body sagged slightly against the pillows, he felt Charle's fingers lightly graze his forehead, just the softest touch, smoothing back a few strands of hair damp with fever sweat.
Victor exhaled slowly.
The low rumbling in his chest never quite stopped.
Thank you for reading another part of my fic. Here you'll find the previous one:
𝔹𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤#𝟛
𝔹𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤#𝟚
𝔹𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤#𝟙
Also I was trying to made a cute dividers like people do and I want them to make cinamonn buns pattern. Hoping it looks right 😅
!This story contains themes of child abuse, religious fanaticism, emotional trauma, and graphic psychological distress. Reader discretion is advised. This chapter is not suitable for younger audiences or sensitive readers! The events and characters in this fic may differ from those presented in the canon. English is not my native language. I apologize for any mistakes.
“Every child deserves a parent. But not every parent deserves a child.”
This is the story of Victor Creed before he became Sabretooth.
A brutal tale buried beneath snow and scripture, of a child born cursed in the eyes of a fanatical father. Locked away in darkness, starved of love and warmth, Victor’s humanity withers as the beast inside begins to stir.
In three harrowing chapters, this fic delves into Victor's childhood—his fear, his hunger, his cold rage—and the choice that led him down a path with no return.
Not a monster by birth.
But by creation.
Chapter I: The Seed of Rot
The woods of Alberta, Canada – 19th century
It was winter when the child came into the world, and the cold that year was cruel. Snow clung to the wooden slats of the Creed family cabin, hissing against the flames in the hearth. The cries of the newborn were sharp, piercing through the howling wind outside like a curse uttered in a church.
Samuel Creed stood at the foot of the bloodied bed where his wife lay panting, her face wet with sweat and tears. He didn’t look at her. His eyes were on the child.
"Boy" the midwife said, wiping the newborn’s face and wrapping him tight. "Healthy. Strong lungs."
Samuel didn’t move. Elisabeth Creed reached out weakly. "Let me see him" she whispered, her voice trembling with hope.
The midwife placed the swaddled infant in her arms. For a moment, the world softened. Elisabeth’s eyes filled with warmth. She traced the child’s pale cheek with trembling fingers. His eyes were strange—amber, deep-set, gleaming in the firelight. His little hands were clenched fists. When he opened his mouth to cry again, she noticed the tips of two white, pointed buds where his canines would be.
"What is this?" Samuel’s voice cracked like a whip.
Elisabeth froze.
He stepped closer. "Let me see that."
The midwife backed away instinctively.
Samuel bent down and pried the baby's mouth open with calloused fingers. His face twisted. "Fangs" he spat. "Like a damn beast."
"He’s just a baby, Sam" Elisabeth said quickly. "A little tooth. Maybe... maybe it’s just early—"
"It’s unnatural" he snapped. "You see his eyes? That’s not the gaze of a child. That’s the gaze of something cursed."
Elisabeth clutched the baby closer, but Samuel was already pacing. Muttering. Quoting scripture under his breath.
"He that is born of sin shall bear its mark... The devil walks among the lambs..." He turned. "You brought a monster into this house."
Tears spilled from her eyes. "He’s your son."
Samuel glared at her with fire in his chest. "No. He’s His."
From that moment, Victor Creed was not seen as a child by his father—but as a trial.
† † † † † † † † † † †
Victor grew fast. Stronger than other boys. Quieter too. He didn’t cry much after infancy—not because he didn’t feel pain, but because he learned early that tears were punished.
The first time his claws came out—small, curved, ivory-like nails that cut his fingertips when he got excited—he was five.
Samuel saw him scratching at a wooden post behind the cabin, drawing symbols in the bark with those claws. They came out when Victor got... agitated, like they had minds of their own.
Samuel beat him with a leather belt until his back was a welted mess.
"I’ll drive the devil out of you if it takes fire and salt." he said through clenched teeth.
Elisabeth screamed. "Stop! He’s just a child!"
Samuel shoved her aside. "He is not!"
Victor remembered that night not just because of the pain, but because of the silence afterward. His mother didn’t speak for two days. She just sat by the fire, rocking back and forth, while Victor lay in the corner, afraid to move, blood drying on his shirt.
† † † † † † † † † † †
Samuel Creed's faith was a weapon. Their cabin was decorated not with love, but with crucifixes—nailed into every doorframe, every bedpost, even the cradle Victor had once slept in. Each cross was a reminder. To Samuel, everything had to be earned in suffering. His own father had beaten the Word of God into him, and now he did the same with his son.
At meals, Victor was made to sit with his hands bound. He was not allowed to speak unless asked to. "The beast inside you listens" Samuel would say. "If you starve it, it grows weaker."
Victor didn’t understand what the beast was. All he knew was that his father looked at him like he was already condemned.
† † † † † † † † † † †
One day, when Victor was seven, there was cake.
It was his birthday but his brother, an older boy named Luther was the centre of attention, he was everything Victor wasn’t: perfect son, mild-tempered, and beloved by their father.
Elisabeth had somehow scraped together enough ingredients for a small cake—hard, dry, and cracked at the edges, but sweet. Victor had never tasted anything like it.
Luther got the first slice. Then Samuel. Elisabeth took none. Victor reached for his portion. "No" Samuel said. "You get nothing."
Victor’s hand hovered. "But... It's my birthday. Mama said—"
"I said no!"
The boy froze. His claws twitched under the skin. His stomach growled. His eyes locked on the last piece—left on the table for someone, for anyone but him. The sweetness in the air was intoxicating.
Then Luther laughed.
"Beast doesn’t get cake" he said, mocking.
And Victor snapped.
The memory after that was fractured—flashes of movement, heat, blood. A scream.
When it was over, Luther lay limp, his neck torn open by something sharp. Elisabeth was shrieking. Samuel’s voice thundered, his hands dragging Victor across the floor. The boy didn’t fight. He didn’t speak. He just kept staring at his brother’s blood on his claws.
That night, Samuel locked Victor in the cellar.
No food. No warmth. No light.
"You took his life" the man said through the door. "You proved me right."
Victor didn’t cry. He sat in the dark, alone with the beast inside him. His own breathing sounded like growling in the silence.
"I didn’t mean to" he whispered. "I didn’t mean to..."
But the cellar didn’t forgive.
† † † † † † † † † † †
Days passed.
Victor was let out only to be beaten, starved, or dragged to church services where Samuel made him kneel in the back pew with his hands in chains.
"Confess your sin!" the priest would shout.
Victor stared at the floor.
Elisabeth no longer smiled. She moved through the house like a ghost, her eyes sunken with shame and fear.
Victor didn’t blame her. She had tried. But Samuel had broken her just like he broke everything else.
The child learned that silence was safer. That hunger was normal. That love was a currency he would never be rich enough to afford.
One night, he woke with a fever. His skin burned. His bones ached. His teeth grew longer. The beast was changing him from the inside out.
Elisabeth found him in the corner of the room, shaking.
"I’m scared, Mama" he whispered.
She knelt beside him, fingers brushing his damp forehead. For once, she didn’t flinch.
"You’re not a monster" she said. "You were never the monster."
He looked up at her, eyes wide. "Then why does he hate me?"
Her voice cracked. "Because he’s afraid."
"Of me?"
"No" she said, her eyes wet. "Of the truth."
Samuel entered then, holding the old family Bible like a weapon.
"There will be no lies in this house" he hissed.
Elisabeth stood between them. "No more, Sam. He’s just a child."
"He’s a demon!"
He struck her. She fell. Victor saw red.
He lunged, claws slashing through the air, and for the first time, he made his father bleed.
Samuel didn’t scream. He laughed.
"There it is" he said, blood running down his face. "The beast. Just like I told you. Just like I always knew."
Victor panted, frozen in place. The laughter echoed in his skull.
"You’ll never be free of it, boy" Samuel whispered, gripping his own bleeding cheek. "It’s your inheritance."
And Victor Creed believed him.
He carried those words for the rest of his life.
___
Thank you for reading this ♥️ Hope that you liked this chapter. If you're interested:
This is my masterlist and my Ao3 where i'm also posting - Mushka025
