“Origin’s”
Note: to clarify, Sabertooth and his son's relationship is toxic.
Age: Three Years Old
*
*
*
The first thing I remember is the smell of whiskey. It's soaked into everything in this dingy motel room—into the curtains, the bedspread, even the air. I wake up to it every morning, like an alarm clock for my nose. Dad says it's "a man's cologne," but I don't think I like it much.
I rub my eyes, yawning as I sit up in bed. The springs creak underneath me. My teddy bear—well, my honey badger—is curled up on my lap. He's a little terror, but I love him anyway. Dad says I should've named him "Biter," but I went with "Buttons." Buttons bit me on the arm yesterday, and it still stings, but I think he's just grumpy like Dad. Maybe they get along because of that.
I swing my legs off the bed, my little toes brushing the sticky carpet. "Dad?" I call, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I can hear him breathing before I see him. His breathing is always heavy, like a bear's—low and rumbling, like he's been running all night. He's sitting at the rickety table across the room, slumped in the chair. His claws click against the wood, and the faint glint of the knife on the table catches my eye. I don't like the knife, but I know better than to say that out loud.
"Morning, kid," Dad growls without looking at me. His voice is rough, like gravel grinding under a car tire. There's blood on his hands—again. I try not to look too hard at it. It's normal. That's what he tells me. "The world's full of soft meat," he says. "Might as well remind it who's at the top of the food chain."
But I don't feel like I'm at the top of anything. I feel small. Like if I'm too loud or move too fast, I'll get squished. That's why I talk soft and walk slow. Dad doesn't like yelling unless he's the one doing it.
I pad over to the bed and scoop up Buttons, holding him against my chest. He squirms a little, growling softly, but he settles when I stroke his fur. He's like me—he just wants someone to be gentle with him.
"Did you have a good night, Dad?" I ask, trying to sound cheerful.
Dad finally looks at me, his yellow eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Best night ever," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He leans back in the chair, his claws tapping against the bottle in his hand. "Got to see some fireworks. Made a new friend. Took her out, too." He laughs, low and mean, like a wolf.
I don't really know what he means, but I laugh a little too. It feels like the safe thing to do.
"You hungry?" he asks suddenly, his voice sharp.
I nod quickly. "Yes, sir."
Dad grunts and gets up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He grabs his coat and tosses it over his shoulder. "Stay here. Don't touch the knife. And keep that badger of yours from wrecking the place. If I come back and this room's trashed, you're on your own, got it?"
"Yes, sir," I say again, clutching Buttons tighter.
Dad doesn't wait for a response. He's out the door before I can say anything else, the bottle in his hand shattering against the wall as he slams it shut behind him.
I sit there for a while, listening to the quiet. The room feels bigger when he's gone, even though it's tiny. It's the kind of quiet that makes you think too much, so I hum a little tune to myself, rocking Buttons in my arms. He nips at my fingers, but I don't mind.
"I think Dad's in a bad mood today," I whisper to Buttons. He tilts his head at me, his beady eyes glinting. "Maybe we should make him a surprise. Do you think he'd like pancakes?"
Buttons doesn't answer, of course, but I like pretending he does. It makes things feel less lonely.
I slide off the bed and tiptoe to the little kitchenette. It's not much—just a hot plate and a mini fridge. But I've watched Dad cook before, and I think I can figure it out.
As I rummage through the fridge, looking for eggs and milk, I hear something thump against the wall. I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. For a second, I think Dad's back, but the door doesn't open.
"Just the neighbors," I whisper to myself. "Nothing to worry about."
I keep working, pouring flour into a bowl and cracking an egg on the edge. The yolk spills out, and I frown, trying to scoop up the shell pieces with my fingers.
By the time Dad comes back, the kitchen is a mess, and the pancakes are...well, they're burnt. Really burnt.
"What the hell is this?" he growls, looking at the disaster I've made.
"I made pancakes!" I say, holding up the plate with a big, hopeful smile.
Dad stares at me for a long time, his eyes narrowing. Then he laughs—a loud, barking laugh that makes me flinch.
"You call these pancakes?" he says, snatching the plate from my hands. "These are charcoal patties!"
I shrink back, clutching Buttons tighter.
But then, to my surprise, Dad takes a bite. He grimaces, chewing slowly, and then swallows.
"Not bad, kid," he says gruffly, ruffling my hair with his big, clawed hand.
It's not much, but it feels like a win.
"Thanks, Dad," I whisper, a small smile tugging at my lips.
"Don't get used to it," he mutters, dropping the plate on the table. "Now clean up this mess."
"Yes, sir," I say, hurrying to grab a rag.
As I scrub the counter, I glance over at Dad. He's already back in his chair, the knife in one hand and a bottle in the other. He looks tired, like he always does, but there's something else in his eyes, something I can't quite figure out.
Maybe one day, I'll understand him. Maybe one day, he'll let me.
*
*
*
*
*
*
Age: Six Years Old
Dad brought something home today, he said it was a gift for me killing Buttons.
I'm not sure what it was.
It looked like a giant puddle of melted ice cream, all white and slimy, slithering around in the cracked glass jar Dad plopped on the table. The jar had dents in it, and the lid looked like it had been forced shut. The thing inside moved like it was alive, squirming and pulsing against the glass.
Dad stood there with his arms crossed, towering over me like he always does. His grin was wide and sharp, but it didn't reach his eyes. It never does. "There. That's for you," he said, like he was handing me a new toy or something.
I stared at it, hugging myself, still raw from losing Buttons. "What is it?" I asked, my voice soft and shaky.
Dad rolled his eyes like I'd asked a stupid question. "It's a gift, kid. A big upgrade. You're always whining about not being tough enough, about how everything hurts. Well, this'll fix you right up. Better than any teddy bear, I promise."
I looked at the jar again. It thumped against the glass like it heard him, and I flinched. "It's alive?"
"Oh, it's alive," Dad said, his voice dripping with something I couldn't quite place—mocking, maybe, or just amusement. "But don't worry. It's gonna like you. You're mine, after all. Blood calls to blood."
That didn't make me feel better. But I didn't want to upset him, not when he was actually trying to give me something. Dad didn't give gifts often—ever, really. So I nodded, even though my stomach felt all twisted up.
"What...what do I do with it?"
Dad leaned down, his grin widening, his claws resting on the table beside the jar. "Oh, that's the fun part, kid. You don't do anything. It does the work for you. All you gotta do is let it in. It'll make you strong, tough. Untouchable. And no more crying about teddy bears, got it?"
I didn't know what he meant, but before I could ask, he unscrewed the lid.
The thing inside didn't wait. It shot out like a snake, faster than I could blink, and wrapped around my arm. It felt cold and wet, like ice water and slime all at once. I screamed and tried to shake it off, but it just kept crawling up my arm, spreading across my chest and neck.
"Stop moving," Dad barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "You're making it harder for yourself. Let it do its thing!"
I froze, my breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as the white goo spread over my skin. It felt wrong, like it was digging into me, slipping under my skin instead of just covering it.
It didn't hurt exactly, but it felt...weird. Like I wasn't me anymore. Like I was being squeezed and stretched into something else.
And then it spoke.
Not out loud, but in my head. Its voice was cold and calm, nothing like Dad's rough growl. "You're mine now. But don't worry—I'll take care of you."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.
Dad watched, his grin fading into something colder, more calculating. "Yeah, that's it. See? Not so bad. Now, let's see what you can do."
The white stuff—it—moved without me telling it to. It stretched out from my arm, forming long, sharp claws that gleamed in the dim light. I stared at them, wide-eyed, as my hands turned into something I didn't recognize.
Dad chuckled. "Looks good on you, kid. Real good. Now, let's test it out."
He picked up the bloody knife from the table and threw it at me without warning.
I flinched, but the white stuff moved before I could. A tendril shot out and caught the knife mid-air, snapping it in half like it was made of paper.
Dad's laugh filled the room, loud and cruel. "See? Told ya. You're better already. Stronger. Faster. Nothing can touch you now."
I didn't feel stronger. I felt scared. Scared of the thing wrapped around me, scared of the way Dad was looking at me—like I was a tool, not his son.
"Why...why did you give me this?" I whispered, my voice shaking.
Dad's grin returned, but it was meaner now. "Because you're mine, and I don't waste my tools. That thing on you? It's gonna make sure no one can trace anything back to me. No evidence, no witnesses, no nothing. You're my little eraser now, kid. Congratulations."
My stomach dropped. I didn't understand everything he was saying, but I understood enough. This wasn't a gift. It wasn't for me.
It was for him.
"Now, let's clean up this mess," Dad said, jerking his thumb toward the far corner of the room. That's when I saw her—a scientist he'd brought back last night. Her body was slumped against the wall, blood pooling around her.
"Go on," Dad said, his tone almost cheerful. "Let your new friend take care of it. That's what it's for."
The white stuff pulsed, and I felt it tugging at me, like it wanted to move, to do what Dad said. I wanted to say no, to run, to scream. But I didn't.
Because when Dad tells you to do something, you do it.
Even if it makes you feel like a monster.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Age: Nine Years Old
Dad's been acting weird lately.
He wasn't acting like his usual savage self. He's been acting more ... reserved? Instead of stabbing me when I sleep in too late he's just let me do it. Or instead of lighting me on fire for burning my lunch he tells me "it still looks edible". He's just been so... weird.
He's extremely skittish and jittering about, keeping everyone and everything at arms length— but not the usual arms length where he can rip out their larynx, more like how I would keep a pan of scalding oil at arms length as to not burn myself or let my Dad flip the pan into my face.
He hasn't even killed anything. Not since my ninth birthday three months ago. I've tried asking him why once and he just left the room, to get groceries for crying out loud. My dad doesn't get groceries! Usually when I ask him something he rips out my liver.
Maybe he got replaced by a Skrull? No, he smells the same.
...maybe he's finally mellowed out? His change in behavior started when my mutation first appeared. Maybe he's proud of me!
My mutation is a lot similar to his. I got his sharper teeth, better hearing, even his claws! The only difference is while he resembles a cat... I got a rabbit.
That doesn't matter right now. My dad's proud of me! He's treating me like he does Omega Red, just with fatherly love and not weird repressed old man love.
I'm gonna make him something, something to show my appreciation for all the good things he's done for me. I can't wait to see his surprised face!
As I carefully worked, setting up my little surprise, I couldn't help but feel a warm sense of accomplishment bubbling up inside me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something right—something that might make Dad proud, something he might even like.
I wasn't the best at making things, but I had my claws now, and with a bit of practice, I figured I could put together something special. I grabbed the flour from the shelf and mixed it with water, trying to make a dough. The process was messy—there was flour everywhere, and the dough was sticky, but I didn't mind. I was doing it for him.
"Pancakes," I whispered to myself. For Dad. He's always liked those, even if he never says it. I'm sure it'll be good. I smiled, even though my heart was racing. There was something about making something with my hands that felt important. I added a little of the sugar I had scavenged from a nearby store, hoping it might make it taste better. Not that it would matter to Dad—he'd eat it even if it was burnt, like he always did.
As I carefully shaped the dough into little lumps, I couldn't stop thinking about how weird things had been lately. Dad hadn't yelled at me in weeks, hadn't even made a move to hurt me for anything. I was used to his growls, his harsh words, his rough hands, but this... this was different. I didn't understand it, but I didn't want to ruin it either. Maybe, just maybe, I was starting to earn his respect. Maybe the mutation was making me strong enough to make him see me as something more than a tool. A son. A person.
With my dough shaped, I added it to the pan. The sizzling sound filled the air, and I carefully kept an eye on it. It was more than I usually managed to do when cooking. I had to admit, I was a little proud of myself.
I just hoped he'd like it.
I stood in front of the stove, nervously humming the tune I often played when I wanted to feel safe. The tune was a little thing I made up, and it made me feel like everything might be okay, even though the world had always been so dark. It reminded me of the few good things I had, and it made the fear and the uncertainty a little easier to swallow.
But the sound of Dad's boots against the floor brought me out of my thoughts, and I froze, turning quickly to face him.
"Hey, kid," Dad said gruffly, his voice less sharp than usual. "What's all this?"
I felt a knot form in my stomach, but I smiled, trying to make my expression as bright as I could manage. "I made you something, Dad," I said, my voice small but steady. "To say... thank you. For not yelling. For being nice."
He raised an eyebrow, staring at me for a long moment. For a second, I thought maybe he was going to go back to his usual way, that he'd lash out like he always did. But then he looked down at the pan, where the little lumps of dough were starting to brown, and his mouth twisted into something that almost looked like a smile.
"Pancakes, huh?" he muttered, his voice low.
I nodded enthusiastically, even though my heart was still beating like crazy. "I thought you'd like them."
Dad didn't immediately try to tear the plate out of my hands, didn't growl at the burned bits or complain that they were too soft. Instead, he watched me with those piercing yellow eyes of his, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in them. Maybe... maybe it was something like pride.
"You really want me to eat these, huh?" His voice was quieter now, almost curious, and that was enough to make me feel just a little less nervous.
"Yes, please," I said, my voice small but hopeful.
He scoffed, but it wasn't as cruel as usual. "Alright, kid. You wanna impress me? Let's see what you've got." He grabbed a piece off the plate with his claws, grazing my hand as he popped it in his mouth without any more words.
I held my breath as he chewed, his eyes still on me, sharp and calculating. I couldn't read him. I couldn't tell if he liked it, if it was good enough. My heart was pounding in my chest.
His eyes started to widen as he brought a hand to his chest, claws digging into his skin.
His breath quickened, and I watched in confusion as his face contorted. At first, I thought maybe he was choking, but then he doubled over, his knees buckling. His hand pressed harder against his chest, and his claws left trails of blood where they dug into his skin.
"What's happening, Dad?" I whispered, my voice shaking as I took a step toward him.
His breathing was erratic, too quick and too shallow, like he couldn't catch his breath. His eyes were wide, frantic, and for a moment—just a moment—I saw something in them that made my stomach twist. It wasn't anger or cruelty. It was... fear.
"I... I can't... I can't breathe..." His voice was strained, like he was choking on something deeper than just air. He gasped, struggling for breath, his body trembling violently. His hands were shaking as he gripped at his chest, his face pale.
I didn't understand. Dad was always the one who never showed weakness. He was always so strong, never scared. But now, he looked like a scared animal, backed into a corner.
"Dad?" My voice cracked as I reached out to him, grabbing his arm. As I touched him, black lines started flowing over his body tracing up his veins
"No, no, no, no!" Dad shouted in anger. "I can't! Stop! Not the teeth again!"
Dad's hands moved up to his face, clawing into it as if trying to tear off a mask. He swatted me off his arm and into the hot place, launching the hot pan into my head as everything started to light on fire.
Dad fell back, roaring in agony as he clawed at whatever was harming him. I stood back up, encasing my arms in the white goo I'd learned to call AntiVenom, shooting tendrils at dad to help cleanse whatever was attacking his mind and body. It only seemed to make things worse as once they touched, more black veins enveloped his body, his eyes going from yellow to green as his roars turned into wailing.
His body slowly shriveled up, losing muscle mass as he curled up, screaming for it to stop.
"Dad! Please!" He cried, "I'm not a devil! I don't want to die—"
He collapsed to the ground with a terrible crash, his body going completely limp.
I froze. Panic flooded my chest as Anti-Venom absorbed back into my body. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not to my dad. He... he couldn't die. Not like this.
His body jerked once, then lay still.
Slowly, I crawled over, fire burning in the background as I went to check his pulse —a thing he taught me to make sure his kills were truly dead before clearing his crime scene.
Nothing.
His chest was silent, no rise or fall, no reassuring thrum of life beneath my hand. His claws hung limp by his sides, stained with blood—his own, for once.
I stared at him, my mind blank and buzzing at the same time. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. This was Dad. He was invincible. He survived everything. He always came back.
But now...
I reached out to shake him, barely able to stop my hands from trembling. "Dad? Come on. Get up. You... you can't..." My voice cracked, breaking apart under the weight of what I couldn't say. "This... isn't funny. Please... get up."
The black veins that had twisted through his skin were gone, but their memory remained, seared into my vision. I could still see the way they had crawled over him, suffocating him, tearing him apart from the inside. And I knew.
It was me.
It was my mutation.
I had killed him.
The fire crackled louder behind me, the flames creeping closer, licking at the edges of the room, but I couldn't move. My body felt frozen in place, my breath caught in my chest as my mind raced through the horrifying realization.
I thought about all the times he'd been cruel, all the pain he'd caused, all the times I'd wished he'd stop. And now he had. He had stopped forever, and I felt like my insides were collapsing under the weight of it.
But I also thought about the times he didn't hurt me. The rare moments when he'd let his guard down just enough to show a sliver of humanity. Like when he taught me how to fight, how to hunt, how to survive. How to stay alive in a world that didn't care if I lived or died. It was harsh, sure, but it was him. It was Dad.
I sat there, staring at his face, at the lines etched deep into his skin, at the fangs that used to snarl and grin and bite. At the eyes that used to burn with something wild and uncontainable, now dull and lifeless.
My chest hurt, my head felt like it was splitting open, and I realized I was crying—actual tears streaming down my face, hot and fast.
"I... I didn't mean to," I whispered, my voice breaking as I reached out to touch his arm, his skin still warm. "I didn't... I just wanted to help you. I just wanted you to be proud of me."
The fire crackled louder, and the smoke was starting to choke me, but I couldn't leave him. I couldn't just leave him.
I wrapped my arms around his still body, holding him close even as the flames began to close in. "I'm sorry, Dad," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm so, so sorry. Please... please come back. Please..."
But there was no answer.
For the first time in my life, I felt completely and utterly alone.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
DGW: Thank you all for reading. I'm sorry if Sabertooth's personality is off, I'm going off the comics version and using the Wiki. The MC is going to grow up do not worry.
Suggest Love Interests Here: Laura Kinney
Word Count: 4,070
Credits: Story Inspired by WritingFiend999 on wattpad