A/N: Wrote this with “my moon my man” on repeat & this is my dream
Your heart beats hard in your chest as you made eye contact with him. The bed you seductively laid naked on was ever so soft, cool and comforting on your skin.
It wasn’t frequent, surprisingly, that you and Kurt played out fantasies in the bedroom. Which made this ever so more nervous. Usually it was his, but tonight it’s yours and it was simple. It took weeks, but you finally asked to play it out.
As you laid with your back against your pillows and your legs closed to the side, you watch him stand in the corner rubbing one out to the sight of you. He stared lustfully into your eyes, occasionally looking over your figure before back into your eyes. You figured it was a worshipping sort of kink, but something about it was so exciting. Also bare, he stood tall in the corner of your shared, warmly lit room.
The amber lighting of the night stand lamps paired with the lit candle on your dresser made it all even more intimate. Neither of you said anything. Just stared at each other as he pleased himself. The muscles in him arm that moved flexed each time he jerked. You noticed his veins popped up in different places on his body when studying him. Places that made you blush even harder.
Occasionally, he’d moan, but you had to listen really close to hear it at all. The more he got into it, the more his chiseled chest moved in and out. To be watched to intensely, picked apart and eaten by his hungry eyes…it was deliciously thrilling. Right now, it was just you and him.
You tired to let your eyes wander more, and usually they’d just land right on that glistening tip aimed right in your direction. If it wasn’t that, it was his strong thighs or his sensual tail. The yellow light mixed with his blue skin mix with his soft expression made him look so, so beautiful.
While staring into his eyes, you’d lick your lips and palm your breasts. A finger would rub over your nipples and his hand would rub quicker. As he got closer to finishing you shifted a bit, moving your legs while still closed off the bed and in front of you.
Then, you slowly started to open them. You could hear his breath hitch as cold air hit you between your legs.
A pointer finger started to tease your clit, but it didn’t last long because he came the second he stared to hard at your pussy, shuddering and groaning loudly in satifaction. All of it somehow shot onto the bed and some even made it to your leg.
So for years black girls have had to read fanfics where y/n was automatically described as being paled skinned with long flowing hair and blue eyes. We couldn’t relate to it exactly, it excluded us, it ignored us. But we read it cause it was all that was out there. Now when we start writing fanfics for other black girls to feel included and represented, now you all are saying that you ‘‘can’t relate to it” therefore don’t support black writers when we were supporting your work all those years even though you were acting like we don’t exist within these fandoms.
It’s incredibly frustrating because I’ll be reading about the characters turning shades of pink and I’m like. I don’t turn pink. Black people don’t blush. If this is suppose to be reader insert why the hell is it saying that? I don’t have blue eyes or flowing hair? The actual heck.
Bruh don’t get me started, we’ve come a long way but why are ppl complaining when we got something to ourselves? Jeez. You have trillions of stuff, let us have our own.
and this shit still relevant!!! let me cook some x black!reader shit up because i just noticed i haven’t lately and idk what yall think this is cause im still seeing stupid non inclusive stuff DAILY.
Summary: You and Kurt are enjoying the last days of your honeymoon, dancing and fucking in a nightclub.
Warnings: Mentions of drinking and doing weed, reader and Kurt are under the influence, the reader is crossfaded, bathroom sex, setting is in a party/club scene
A/N: this is literally inspired by that gif in the middle💀 anyways enjoy some more kurt x reader food during this drought
Bright, neon lights fill the room and nearly blind you at this point as bodies, mostly mutants dance and bump into yours. Drunk laughter and loud house music surrounds you from all angles. It was a packed night, yes. It was summer and a weekend during the summer at that.
Against the walls, you’ll see couples making out, some stripping clothes. Some bodies had extra limbs, others tails. A tail just like your new husband’s who is currently grinding against your backside. You’d admit this wasn’t your usual cup of tea, but you had a few drinks and a couple puffs of weed thanks to the generosity of one kind man, so you were more than enjoying yourself. You didn’t care how silly you looked as you let the music move you.
It was right around 1am last time you checked. You and Kurt agreed to leave around 11. That was before you had your second margarita.
The Devil’s Tango was one of those rare places that accepted all. As long as you were over 21 years old, of course. It was a place of no judgement, fun and even a bit of taboo. Mutants opened and ran it, wanting somewhere safe naturally especially after the fall of Genosha. The name had you raising an eyebrow at Kurt when he suggested you two go during your honeymoon. Not because of what it stood for, but the name.
“The Devil’s Tango, huh?” You chuckled a bit laying on his bare chest in your shared hotel bed. He just smiled down at you with an expression you couldn’t quite fully read. “A club named after a phrase for sex?”
“Sounds excitingly intriguing, no?”
You don’t answer, but curiosity did fill your head as you tried to imagine what the inside would look like.
The sex part of it wasn’t going to be in your face, come to find out. You noticed the couples kissing and touching eventually disappear around corners or fade away, leaving behind shoes and sometimes even pants or shirts. The thought of where they went never left you as you danced and drank.
Surprisingly, this was the peak of the night. You were slightly damp from sweating and from the humid atmosphere despite the ceiling fans. Looking up, you finally noticed the disco ball and smiled fully.
“L-look, Kurt!” You say a bit louder than you wanted, almost tripping over your own feet turning to him. You point up as he catches you.
“Ah! So you just noticed?” His hands hold you steady as he looks back down at your drunken smile.
You continue to dance in his grasp exclaiming, “It’s so pretty…”
His hands held your sides lovingly. He was already shirtless and only wore his loose beach shorts. His body was still soft, even a bit warm as you got closer to him just to touch him. Something in the alcohol or in the air lit that familiar spark between your legs as you looked at him closely. Maybe it was the fact it was your honeymoon. It didn’t matter though, you knew what you wanted.
You blurt it out before you can stop yourself, “I’m so turned on by you right now.”
He smirks down at you and kisses your cheek. You grab his face before he fully pulls away, kissing him feverishly on the lips. Lust and euphoria consumed your entire being now, still not caring for the world around you.
“Ahh~ so you want to understand why they call this the devils tango now?” He purred in your ear, a thicker version of accent slipping. You could smell the fruity alcoholic drinks on his breath as he pulls away. You nod at his question, holding onto his arm.
Suddenly, the world spins as he pulls you through the dancing crowd to a darker part of the building. You watch as the sea of bright saturated color change into darkness and then a warm yellow. It takes a few minutes before you realize he pulled you into a bathroom.
“I’ve always wanted to have public bathroom sex!” You whisper while giggling, stumbling backwards before Kurt catches you once more. “Take me over the sink.”
Something was just so exciting about getting completely nude somewhere that wasn’t your bedroom or even the hotel room you’ve been in for a week. You pull your panties down, listening to a muffled version of one of your favorite songs playing outside the door.
Kurt is already bare, touching himself when you finally turn towards him. His eyes were glazed over with lust as he looks down at yours, then your breasts.
He then groans rubbing a finger over his tip, “You are…so so beautiful. So verdammt schön…”
His tail wraps around and tickles your clit as you sit on the edge of the sink. Pleasure erupts from there land you spread your legs wider.
He spits on his hand and rubs it on his length before closing the distance between you two. He whispers in your ear, “Are you ready?”
The thrill of this and horniness fills you as you nod and kiss him. You almost don’t feel him go inside of you as you wrap your arms around his neck. Strong blue arms wraps around once he’s in. You feel his breath on your shoulder and close your eyes.
As he thrusts, you listen to the music once more. Then the slick sounds your bodies make as they move against each other. You wondered how many others got fucked just like you were in this very bathroom.
You feel nothing but love as Kurt moans each time your bodies meet. Warm, wet kisses land all over your body and german sweats fill your ears. Kurt lays his forehead on yours and looks deeply into your eyes. You two were on completely different planets and you don’t know if you’ll ever feel this euphoric and carefree again.
You don’t know how long you two were in that bathroom, but by the time you came out half the place was gone and the music was now slower. The strobe lights were now steady and colors slowly fading into another.
The only evidence of what went on in that bathroom drips a bit down your leg as Kurt guided you out.
“Ready to rest, liebing?” He asked warmly, rubbing your shoulder. You can’t do anything but nod. Fatigued, you and Kurt once more swim through the bodies in a sea of vibrant hues. The music now sounds more distant than ever.
You look back one more time once at the entrance and watch as it all soon becomes a distant memory.
I need Alan Davis' Nightcrawler to trip me with his tail, catch me in his awaiting arms, pinch my cheek, and then purr something so scandalous in my ear — something so lewd yet so sweet, straight-up filth hidden beneath flowery words — that I will blush in places I didn't even know could blush.
Summary: Imagine being eaten out by the Kurt Wagner…🤤
Pairing: Nightcrawler x Fem!reader
Warnings: Literally just cunniligus. {MDNI 🔞}
A/N: Something shorter. I’ve been craving an eater in my life for a hot minute now. Specifically, from this fuzzy blue elf.
Your room was a soft, gentle blue as it was officially the crack of dawn. Soft sheets almost swallow your skin as you lay completely bare on top of them. Moans escape your throat as a half awake Kurt lay between your legs pleasuring you in anyway he possibly could. Half lidded, illuminated golden eyes peak at you as his nose tickled the bush that rested on your pelvis.
His tongue, warm and excited like it had a mind of its own, slowly lapped at your folds. He started at the bottom and slowly worked his way up until he gets to your clit, which he then suckles on it gently before repeating. Wet kisses and tickles from the warm flesh neared you closer and closer to finishing. It was lazy and beautiful and loving. So tender, intimate. The world was just you two, you’d be convinced.
Strong, furry arms helped hold you down as you started to twitch uncontrollably. His hands have a more gentle grip on each of hips as you moved around on the bed.
“Kurt…f-fuck..!”, you whisper into the dim room. Your eyes were now clenched shut as you felt him softly hum on your clit. You could feel him smile down there and you moaned loader and reached one hand to grip his curly hair.
Focused, he licked and kisses faster. The more you writhe, the more he focuses on that area of sensitivity. All your mind could think of was how pretty this blue light made your room and the hungry mutant between your legs.
You flinch out of sensitivity, almost wanting to get away, but you know this feeling too well. You were almost there. God, you were so close. Kurt holds you still know this also and continues sensually pleasing you.
Warmth emits from the area and that familiar light feeling fills your lower stomach. You start to feel like you’re floating as all your nerves are lit up, something you can describe as purely euphoric. Losing concern for anything else around you and throatily whining your lovers name, you finish. Bliss washes over your entire being and fills your mind. He doesn’t let up as you begin to clench and spasm. Your back arches uncontrollably for a few seconds before you finally relax and land back on earth.
He smiles at you, lower half of his face damp. His lips shine as the early sun light hits them. A tongue slips out to lick them as he shifts up.
Resting your hands on your stomach, you sigh gravely.
A/N (PLEASE READ): Guys, I’m so sorry for this taking forever. Let me explain, so basically I have been very busy with mostly college stuff and this summer was a lot for me as well, and long story short…I still like invincible, but I don’t really have much of a passion for really writing anymore about invincible. Really primarily this story and I’ve actually had this just sitting my drafts for literally several months… I’ve just been busy. I haven’t been able to get it polished or add more and I really have no ideas on how to even continue this in the first place so I’m really just putting this out now. I think it’s a good time because obviously season four just finished up. It’s probably gonna get the most people‘s attention now more than ever. I know that it’s been pretty much a very, very long wait and I don’t know if it’s gonna be worth it either. I just don’t want this to sit in my drafts forever.
So if you wanted to do a part three or kind of add more or anything like that, that’s fine. Just tag me obviously as the original. But overall, I’m pretty much done unfortunately with invincible writing I think at least for now and I mean, I really just wanted to finally get this posted even though it’s half finished at least to me.
I also want to really thank everyone for the love on part one too! I really didn’t expect it and I’m happy so many people love it
(part one here)
Tags - @purpsy-naz @praisethehighest
It’s been a day.
Mark didn’t stop for hours. You passed out many times and everytime you woke up he was still thrusting. Why were you even surprised? He did have a Viltrumite’s stamina after all.
You never agreed to stop the Viltrumite take over, but he never changed his mind either. He only stopped to get a fucking glass of water. Not because he was tired or giving up but literally just to rehydrate so he could come back and keep going.
You managed to get away from him when he went to the bathroom. You were sore and felt like you were soon going to become one worth the couch bu the minute he was away you ran upstairs to his room and locked the door. His room was as you expected. An earth being, teenaged boys’ room. The dirty clothes and immature books humans called “comics”. You always hated it all. Viltrum was the only way and it made you sick whenever you were faced with traitors. Nolan really taught this boy nothing.
But you still cared for Mark deep down. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t really fight him off the way you want. That’s what made you sick about yourself. You were born and raised on Viltrum, yet since being here on earth you’ve become soft. Too soft. The elites would laugh in your face and never let you live this down if they found out this is why you haven’t reported back in ages.
It wasn’t long before Mark noticed you were gone and started searching for you. Quickly.
You realized you were still bare and threw on one of his oversized shirts. You figured the closet was unfortunately the only and best place you could hide in but as you were looking for boxers or shorts or just literally anything for your bottom half he flew through his floor and spotted you.
“I knew I heard something in here…” He muttered. He was still pissed…
You didn’t even plead. You two fought again, fucked again, fought some more, slept, woke up, fucked, fought….
And so fast forward to today, a day later, you two were “taking a break”. You laid on his parents bed now as he paced the room..still angry somehow.
“What do you think Cecil will feel about you having nonstop sex with your opponents?” You sighed, horribly aching and also cursing yourself for literally not fighting back harder, for letting this happen. Mark never responded.
You sat up slowly and watched him cross his arms and face away from you.
“Hey.”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean “nope”?”
You sighed again and got up to find another shirt to put on. It was a plain shirt, but, nevertheless, it’s Debbie’s.
“Hey, take my mom’s shirt off- and I’m not done with you.”
“You cannot be serious with this. Why..why am i even doing this with you? I should take you to Viltrum right now and stop this.”
“Okay. Do it.”
You froze. It was meant to be a bluff, something to scare him. You knew if you turned him in they’d kill him and then probably you too for messing around. And he was still your boyfriend after all…theyd never understand how this worked. How..caring for others worked. They just say you’re weak then lights out. Forever.
“That’s what i thought. Get back on that bed.”
“Okay, but, Mark seriously let’s just talk, i’m…. I’m tired.”
“And I’M tired of people getting killed for stupid reasons! Why would i let you guys kill more people?”
“Mark you don’t understand we’re trying to help these planets. Those who resist are only getting in the way off something better…we can help the sick, improve technology…”
He wasn’t hearing any of it. He started walking towards you and you knew that look in his eye…
“I. don’t. care.” He pushed you back and you landed with a soft thud. “I’m not gonna stop until you call them off.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then i can’t stop fucking you.”
“Mark-“
It almost hurt when he pushed himself inside you again. You weren’t as wet as you’d think you needed to be and he was thrusting like crazy. This wasn’t your lovely boyfriend you were used too, he was almost like a machine at this point. You never thought it end, and, yet, it felt so good. Maybe you didn’t want it to end. Or even turn him in.
Something inside, besides him, wanted you to just…..abandon it all. Stop serving Viltrum.
Earth was beautiful. It was the complete opposite of Viltrum. There was structure but it wasn’t everywhere. The emotions…the high and lows of it all. Right now for gods sake. Pain was beautiful. So was grief or just plain sadness. Or happiness. None of that was really allowed back at home. So, maybe, just maybe, Earth changed you. For the better or worse is up to who the person being asked is.
Viltrumites, true ones anyway, wouldn’t even answer and just kill you. Maybe a petty insult beforehand, but still.
Most Earthlings would be happy you’d even considered leaving such an empire.
You didn’t realize Mark finished again until he pulled out of you and grunted loudly. You rarely “disassociated”, but maybe that’s what you just did. Thinking about the happy times with Mark or your fake family or even alone observing these strange lives of Earth.
Kurt Wagner who is not abashed, not even one bit, of being nude around you.
Word count: 1.6k
It is with frivolity that he ambles around your sun-flooded room as the morning ripens and swells with warmth, and the great concrete gorges of the city of New York lay imposing and bleak-gray against the low-hanging skies. Rivers of car noise flow unhurried along the avenue, gurgling with intermittent horn hiccups and engine hisses, but it’s muted, sluggish, fading in the air laded with dust and slumber not quite shaken off yet. An eggshell of peace, easily cracked and peeled off; a halt of time between the first alarm and the next, when minutes stretch their limbs like drowsy cats, yet seem to fly over your head just as swiftly as a flock of canaries. This wonderfully placid hour of gold, the one you’d keep sleeping through, none the wiser, if not for the promise of a vision that has become the favourite of your routine. A dark blue ink stain against the oranges that paint your mornings — a man basking in the sun’s glory in front of the window.
Before your half-lidded eyes Kurt is bare and candid. A stolen sliver of dusk given form, and seemingly for the sole purpose of bewitching impressionable lasses such as yourself. He's all litheness and supple flesh, woven of lax muscle, adorned with ridges and grooves, and as he flexes his neck with a stifled groan, the indigo sea of his pelt moves in languid waves, sheen rippling across the expanse of his back. He yawns, cracks his joints, twists his tail in a mock show of checking its mobility; leisured poise softens every move in a manner that speaks of deliberateness: he knows you are awake and mesmerized by the tango of shadows and morning light on his body.
And who wouldn’t be, when the dishevelment of his fur draws a map of your night rendezvous?
Shoulder blades splay like wings — between them furrows of raked hairs mark your nails' trail in a broken line. Your gaze climbs down the soft crest running along his spine, travels past the ravines of his waist and the slopes of his hips, slides across delicate hollows that shape his buttocks and lingers for a moment too long in the canyon of his mighty thighs. There, beneath the crease of folded skin, shadows lurk, veiling his flesh in a display of modesty of sorts — as feigned as it can be, for the taste of him still coats your tongue in a musky tang, strangely soothing in its bitterish familiarity. You do not hurry to breathe with your mouth: savoring, keeping it in, smeared on the inside of your cheeks.
When you inhale it’s through your nose, a barely there flutter of air that could have been a rustle of curtains caught in the breeze to anyone else but the man before you. You inhale, the chemical scent of clean sheets swallowed by the fragrant, rain-washed smell of August withering in its cage of brick and glass, and Kurt turns away from the window. Gold outlines the confident, sharp edges of his profile as if attempting to confine the darkness that clings to his features in a half-mask.
Tufts of clumped hair — held together by the remnants of your joined pleasure — frame the curve of his belly and seduce your eye like bold criss-crosses that lead to hidden prizes. His pose is open and blunt, uninhibited with confidence that only comes to those whose soul thrives in its shell, tail coiling and uncoiling in a hypnotizing dance, and a stray glimpse at the shadows-draped softness weighting between his thighs is enough to make you blink away any drowsiness that still lingered.
“Ah, guten Morgen, Dornröschen”, Kurt’s voice is a chime, and the settled mischievous coquetry in it rings muted just a tad by unconcealed fondness.
The sun rests its slim palms on the width of his shoulders, running its fingers through his fur, and every hair of it is swathed in gossamer gild. Thick honey of daybreak poured into the blue milk of midnight — like a miniscule solar eclipse. Here he is, standing in front of your window, the light a cloak behind his back and a crown atop his head, and you know not in whose image the Lord could even create such a being, but whoever he was, he was fucking ethereal.
Words are slow to brew in your mouth, so you respond with a stretch of your arms instead. The strain is warm in your muscles, and as you sit up the duvet slides down helplessly, bunching up at your waist, and the sigil of Kurt’s gaze is almost as tangibly hot on your bared breasts as the fondle of the sun’s hand. His breath doesn’t quite catch, but the flexion of his tail betrays the interest just as plainly. An involuntary little flick up and down — a mental caress born of muscle memory. The shadows swirling between his thighs can’t hide the faint twitch, and you can’t shoo away the smugness from your grin. Two can play at that game.
“Guten Morgen auch dir, Prinz Charming”, you singsong and Kurt snorts, stepping away from the window.
It is with confidence that he moves around your room, shameless like a cat spoiled rotten, and flakes of dust, caught in the golden net, float up disturbed by the movement. His dark figure is a cutout of space amidst the jumble of old furniture you never got around to throwing away and sentimental trinkets, yet your tiny apartment in the heart — or rather in the atrium — of New York city has never felt more like home, this welcomed unearthliness slotting into its dull mundanity like a missing puzzle piece.
Lumps of the tight suit lay cold and crumpled on the floor like patches of shed skin; you watch, head tilted to shoulder in lazy curiosity, as Kurt bends to pick them up and toss on the chair for later, and the sight of the frizzy fur of his ass is the most tantalizing.
Somewhere in the hallway one floor above a front door slams shut and your ceiling vibrates with the sheer impact of it. Kurt eyes the plaster, cracked enough as it is, and notes with mischievous casualty, “I believe we gave your neighbors quite a headache last evening, Schatzi”.
Headache would be an understatement. At this point the scandalized side eyes during elevator rides barely even scald your face with embarrassment, although at first you forced yourself to take the stairs every morning for two weeks straight. Mind-blowing sex and thin walls of American apartment complexes do not mix well, and to everyone else’s misfortune Kurt was an amazing lover.
You groan.
“We did, yet it is I who will have to apologize to poor Mrs. Tuffin. Again.”
Kurt only chuckles at that — the carefree posture of someone who is not obliged to face a sweet elderly dame next door with a surprising for her age keen ear every Sunday. His smile is a scimitar unsheathed, a sharp blade to your poor heart, and the shadows on his face move and fold into lovely crinkles around his mouth. Oh, how shallow your indignation runs for this sly devil and he knows it all too well, treading in its waters without a worry in that blue head of his.
He reaches the doorway, an open maw where the sun doesn’t reach, and you call for him in hesitation as well as acceptance.
“You could always come with me, you know. She bakes great wafers”.
Kurt stops momentarily and something smolders in his gaze.
“I’m sure I’m missing out on the fun, Liebling, but you know I can’t”, he lingers for another second and offers like a consolation, “I can make breakfast, though. Your favourite, what say you?”
He winks and casts off his golden mantle as the dark hallway swallows the indigo outline of his body and you swallow your disappointment.
He may not stay as long as you’d want — he barely ever does — but you know he tries to for as long as he can allow. And you know that when, unconcerned with covering yourself, you follow his trail into the cramped kitchen, he will be dancing to some ditty he heard on the TV a few nights back, tail swishing along the whole humble length of the room; that he will use it to pull you closer, your nakedness warm and yielding against his own, and that one of his hands will travel. You know his lips will be creamy with butter, tingly with the fizz of laughter, but just in a matter of half an hour, when the indigo is hidden underneath scarlet and black and the gold is faded pale, they will taste of bitter coffee with one sugar cube and tender oaths.
And you know that one evening — not this one, perhaps not even the next, but some evening — you will walk into your apartment, looming with shadows, dull with quietness, and the bathroom door will be left ajar, just enough for a strip of light to dash the darkness. Inviting wordlessly. And Kurt will be there, a tang of iron dusting the air, exhaustion fogging the crescents of his eyes, yet sharpness of his smile not blunted and the ambiguity of his pose not concealed with discomfort. You won’t remember who reached out first, but the yearning will run through your fingers in a tremble that will hinder unbuttoning your blouse and make you pull a little too harsh on his hair. He will press himself against you, fur to skin, soothing, warm with rushing blood, and the breathy chuckles will make your skin prickle with adoration. With anticipation of yet another of your personal solar eclipses.
He may not stay as long as you’d want but you know that he will always come back to you.
Alright venting time. I read and reread this piece so many times, yet I'm still not satisfied with it and I don't think I'll ever be. It was supposed to be a collection of different situations where Kurt is not, quote, "abashed of being naked around you" because we all know he is a freak, but halfway there it transformed into something else entirely, so yeah. I don't like it at all, but I do like the image of butt-naked Kurt walking around my room so I had to get it out of my system in a form of a text that was at least coherent and legible. It's a clumsy attempt but an attempt nonetheless, so that's what counts right?
Anyway I apologize for any grammatical, syntactic, and punctuation errors or any weird phrases, given that I'm not a native English speaker. Constructive criticism is always welcomed.
Warnings: mentions of death and dealing with grief
A/n: Idk. I really wanted to come back and clear my drafts. But..I just lost someone very close to me in my family. There’s a good chance I might take another break.
This might be very different from what I usually post but it’s helping me in some weird way and I hope maybe it could help someone else too..
No one in the mansion knew what to really say or do when you started locking yourself in your room to cry.
The first day was the worst. The day you got the news. They had called you to let you know they passed.
Something that hurt the most was you kissed the persons call a few days prior, but you swore you’d answer and call back that very day. What could’ve happened in a few days? You didn’t understand, you didn’t want to.
Your world was shattered, you swore you’d had more time. Why now? Why ever?
The first day you couldn’t stop crying. The world felt..wrong. Empty almost. Your hands couldn’t stop shaking and you were getting a headache from stressing and crying and beating yourself up. How could you get so busy you couldn’t call back sooner? You missed what could’ve been your last conversation with them. An opportunity you’d never get back.
A few of the others helped you the first day, holding you as you sobbed. You go through usual, “Sorry for your loss” but it just felt like a depressing version of happy birthday. Everyone saying it, and you can only say “Thank you.”
It’s still very early on. You don’t want to eat. Their pictures make you cry. People asking you how you’ve been doing really makes you cry. And you’re so tired of crying.
You don’t want anything but them back. Nothing feels right anymore.
Then came a knock. It wasn’t like Scott’s heavy ones or Jean’s telepathic ones. No, it was gentle. Almost hesitant.
You don’t respond but the door opens anyway. You’re met with the slight smell of sulfur and food that makes your stomach immediately react.
“Y/N?”
You turn your head to see Kurt in your door way hold a bowl of soup.
You don’t say anything but you slowly sit up and lean against your headboard.
He allows himself in but closes the door before making his way over to you. He doesn’t say anything either but sets the bowl next to you on your nightstand.
There isn’t anything to say. Nothing would bring them back. Your world is skewed. It just hurts.
When he sits and moves next to you, you allow yourself to be pulled in. Listening to his heartbeat calmed you.
You eventually let him say a prayer. He did in German. You don’t know what he said, but trusted it will help in time come. There have been no dreams or special feelings of them being “close” to you, and you started to just wonder if something was wrong with you. Or maybe their soul was lost. Or maybe souls don’t exist at all.
Summary: Nightmares have been bothering you since joining the X-mansion, but soon after developing an odd crush on a certain blue friend the “nightmares” became something you looked forward to.
Pairing: Nightcrawler x fem!reader
Content/Warnings: {MDNI 🔞} Smut, piv, wet dreams, profanity, nudity, oral, Odaxelagnia (biting kink), reader is female with female parts
A/N: Oooof, finally out of a writer funk. I wish I was more active honestly, but if you’re still here thank you🤍 this year I’m really gonna try and get these drafts cleared for real. Anyways, please enjoy this good food
Honestly, not fully proof read..sorry💀
Kurt Wagner was a saint.
Strong, but soft blue arms held you close as you cried from yet another nightmare. He whispered delicate prayers into your hair and rubbed your shoulders. You didn’t mean to wake him, though it was probably impossible from how close your rooms were.
He’s been bamfing in the second he hears you screaming. The first night you were sobbing. It was cold when your eyes shot open, and you soon realized it was because you were on the ground. Your bed was a mess like you were fighting, maybe you were. The nightmare was the same, Sentinels destroying your home and killing your family but not before torturing the X-men. Their screams filled your ears as you were helpless. You’re still weak, but before said weakness you were scared.
You’ve been in the mansion for a few years now. Slowly, after a first full year of therapy, you’ve gotten stronger. There was an attack on the mansion about a few months ago however, and that is when the nightmares started. They were often bloody and dark.
You told Xavier you might need to start therapy again. It was driving you mad waking up in sweat or on the ground.
It started to get to you and that’s when Kurt started coming in. He was worried sick that first night. He comforted you in any way he could, but this was primarily prayer. You didn’t argue. Especially, since it honestly helped you get back to sleep. Part of you swore the prayers were laced with some melatonin. Some nights he bamfed you on the roof and you two spent time counting the stars or looking at the moon if it was full. He told stories about his time at the circus, but sugarcoated nothing. When that topic came up he always reminded you of perseverance.
He nothing short of patient when you couldn’t speak but only cry. He never judged you for being grown and acting like this.
Could you really blame yourself when you started developing feelings? At first, you were freaked out. He was only being nice. This is just how Kurt Wagner was.
Then you started paying more attention to him throughout the day. The way his body moved and muscles flexed when he trained and swung around. Or his smile when telling jokes to other X-men. Soon, whenever he was around your heart beat so quick you knew Xavier or Jean could hear it. This was confirmed when she literally winked at you during dinner one time and he accidentally brushed up against you at the table.
If it was so obvious then how could he not tell?
Then your mind started to wander, and this is where you started feeling really guilty. During team training, you started getting distracted by his charm. He’d pass you a ball or catch you from falling and he was just so damn gentle with you, but so strong at the same time. You started to mentally undress him. You’ve seen his abs before so that wasn’t hard to imagine. His pecks were next. You already knew how his “skin” felt. Soft and like silk, almost like velvet.
It wasn’t fair to him, you thought. Why did you feel this way about him? You thought about him so much that, yes, he started manifesting in your nightmares.
First, he was the one dying and getting hurt with the rest of the team. Then, it was solely just him and those nights were the hardest.
One of said nights, he came in your room the normal way. He was slightly ill, but determined to be by your side. It was dark as the moon wasn’t full anymore and the only light source came from the hall which was dimmed itself during quiet hours.
So, maybe, it was the lighting or the fact you just woke up…but Kurt didn’t look soft and sweet when he was in your doorway this particular night. His yellow eyes glowed like usual, but the rest of him was dark especially the top half of his face. The light behind him highlighted his frame as well as his pointy ears and that tail. You hated even more to admit that in that moment as he slowly walked towards you, you felt fear.
Of course, it only lasted a moment as once he was close enough and you could see him better he was the same kind man.
But the moment and feeling never left your mind no. In fact, you started to explore that side of him. The dark, “scary” side. This didn’t help your guilt, though. You were aware that Kurt struggled with his demonic appearance as it was something he could never truly hide. It was just something about it..that moment, that really just turned you on. As fucked as it was.
Eventually, your nightmares evolved. Now Kurt was the bad guy and would hunt you in the night as you ran through streets. His body moved swiftly in the dark as he prowled. Your brain turned it into an adrenaline rush game of cat and mouse. The dream you always ran, but deep down wanted to be caught just to see what he’d do. Maybe you were not scared of him, but more wildly interested and attracted to him. His three fingered hands honestly never bothered you, and that tail? Your mind went to a dirty place imagining what he’d do with it in bed.
The media called him a monster because of his eccentric features, but you called those same feature sexy. He enthralled you truly.
When the nightmares gave you the results of wet dreams you knew you had a huge problem on your hands. Touching yourself immediately afterwards was the only solution you had. Though it never satisfied the craving for him or the need to be treated like prey. A twisted part of you just wanted those sharp canines of his in your neck, or anywhere on your body. To be held down as he drew blood.
He noticed. Thank God the truth wasn’t obvious.
He’d ask you about how your nights have been. Have the nightmares gone away? Were you okay? You lied and like always he reminded you that he was there.
But when he smiled at you your heart pounded. There were those teeth again. That kindness that drew you in. The same demeanor that made you feel sick because of how your mind has framed him in recent times.
You’d never come clean, but eventually you wouldn’t have a choice.
You were having another nightmare, this one more seductive than any of the previous. You didn’t know you were moaning his name in your sleep or tossing around as he fucked you in the dream. You were weak compared to him, and he took advantage of that. He thrusted with a brutal pace, one that would overstimulate but enjoyable enough.
The familiar sound of your door creaking when it opened pulled you from the dream slightly frustratingly. You felt the familiar wetness between your legs first, then as you looked towards the door you saw him. Just like before, almost completely shadowed with only the light from the hallway to highlight his silhouette. You heart skipped a beat at first, not expecting to see him especially after such a pornographic dream.
Your mind flipped between fear and wondering if this was a reality.
“Kurt..?”, You timidly whisper. You sit up a bit more trying to see not fully looking into his amber eyes.
He took a few more steps, unknowingly exciting you more and responded, “I heard my name.”
How can you answer that? What could you say? Your brain short circuited trying to come up with some sort of a lie.
“Sorry, I must’ve been..dreaming again.”, You say shaking your head and looking away. “Did I wake you?”
He’s closer by the time you look up again, almost towering you. The dark making him look just as sexually menacing as dream Kurt. There was a brief pause and then a husk, “Yes.”
Nothing else.
You weren’t stupid and neither was he. You knew over the past weeks you were hiding things well. You could barely make eye contact and you knew that he knew what a moan sounded like. Wondering what will happen next worried you deeply. Would he be disgusted for lusting after him? Kurt was not a prude but he definitely was more reserved regarding expressing himself when it came to anything sexual in nature. Everyone knew this.
What you didn’t expect was for him sit on your bed and slowly lift a hand to your face. The second he touched you, you wanted to lunge at him and kiss him, literally inhale him if you will, but you fought the urge.
After a while, “I know what you need now.”.
Your heart beats faster. “What do you mean?”
He scoots closer and you swore he was giving you slight bedroom eyes. The suggestion made you feel a familiar tingle between your legs and excitement throughout your body you hated but also loved. You wanted him to admit it, but you knew he wanted the same from you before anything. Consent, also, really turns you on.
He looked away for a second himself and then back into your eyes, almost like he was contemplating. His hand moved to hold yours, and then even more quietly, “I heard it in your voice, I’ve noticed it when you are around me. You vant something…”
You don’t respond, but you do nod slowly.
“I…I am drawn to you as vell..”
And again you nod, scared to say anything.
Then suddenly and huskily, “Say it.”
“Say…?”
“Say vhat you vant. Vhat you need. And I vill.”
You look away and you can’t contain your smile. It’s almost like you’re a giddy teen again. These are moments that happen in stories, but here you are.
At this point you’re so horny you don’t even care if it’s real or not. So you look back at him and say, “I want you, yes. Carnally.”
And when he doesn’t move you quickly add, “Please.”
“I cannot believe I turn you on. Many think I am some monstrosity. A freak. But, you….”
“Kurt, you turn me on in ways I cannot even explain.” You lean back against your headboard, biting your lip. “Please, please take me.”
He doesn’t say anything. He slowly lets go of your hand and slowly pulls the sheets off of you. There’s a new hungry look in his eye that gives you the theory that he’s felt the same way for a minute. What confirmed it was how quick he started to kiss you.
You took the opportunity to bite his lips surprising him, but drawing him in. He satisfyingly got the memo and started to bite back. His hands moved on your body like maybe he was dreaming as well. They were frantic, but firm. Just the way you craved. You didn’t realize you weren’t breathing until he moved to your neck and you took a gasp for air immediately. He searched for your sweet spot, finding it rather quickly like he somehow studied you. When you respond and called his name he took advantage and started to bite there as well.
Then it slipped, “Harder. Please, Kurt. Harder.”
Heat rushed to your face as he looked up, but he didn’t say anything. There was a slight concern behind his eyes, but you figured he was looking or listening for consent so you nodded. Then again, “Please. It’s okay.”
Then he’s back on your neck, kissing you a few times in the same area and then biting harder. There’s sound that escaped you was involuntary, but it made him respond with a moan as well.
You could feel his teeth sink into your skin and that beautiful pain immediately turned into pleasure. It was better than in your dreams because you could feel it all. The weight of his sculpted body, his hands sinking into the curves of your hips, his tail playfully brushing against different areas of exposed skin…
You didn’t notice he drew blood until he started to lick the spot he was biting. It felt warm and tingly and you knew it would cause a mark later, but you didn’t care.
He moved to pull his shirt off rather quickly before kissing you once more, just deeper this time. Quickly, it became sloppy when his tongue slipped into your mouth. The sensation was almost overwhelming. His tongue was stronger than yours and it felt like he was trying to eat you.
“Vait.” He said pulling away quickly out of breath. “I vant to kiss you naked.”
You don’t even say anything and immediately start pulling off your clothes. You wore no bra and this night no underwear either. Kurt pulled the rest of his clothes off while you did and once you both were bare he threw them to the floor, out of the way.
A moment passed and you lean back against the headboard and your pillow. It suddenly hit you that you were naked, in front of the man you’ve been dream about sexually for weeks. It’s real.
You’re shy as he practically devours you with his eyes, mutter swears.
“You are truly beautiful. Really. I…Ido not deserve to see this…”, he sighed. He grabbed your fae once more and turned your head so you’d face him. It took a minute before you met his eyes.
He was sexier than your blurry wet dreams for sure.
“Yes, you do. I don’t deserve to see you like this if anything.” You smiled looking away again.
He titled his head, “Vhy?”
“I..I’ve been having..dreams. About you and I. I just feel guilty and weird. You’re like, the mansion saint.”
“No, no, no. Do not feel guilty.” He said while holding your hand with his. “You could not control it, and it is not real.”
You nod not knowing what to say, but your heart melts because of his sweetness.
After a few second he adds while laughing, “And trust me, I’m no saint.”
You softly giggle at that, and then, “I dream of you differently, you know. It’s almost like a sexy cat and mouse game.”
“Ahh, so that is vhy you like me biting you..”, he smirked. You can’t help but blush a bit at the playful tease.
You feel his hand move off your face and start lowering on your body, feeling the softness of your skin. He stops on your upper thigh. It excites you and heat rushes between your legs once more as you feel his eyes staring there.
“Kiss me again?” You whisper coyly.
His tail wraps around your arm, replacing his other hand as it moved to your other thigh. Slowly, he used a bit of strength to open your legs.
Licking his lips and lowering his head he purrs, “I’d rather kiss you here…if that is okay.”
Your answer is caught on the tip of your tongue as your breath hitched, feeling his lips meet your wet clit. He kisses it a few times and then gives it a few kitty licks, fluttering against it.
“Kurt-!”, you start but he shushes you and proceeded to lick a long stripe against your folds.
You squirm and mewl as he savored the taste of you on his tongue, collecting all the wetness that accumulated there. He groans against you, like your get best thing he’s ever tasted. He flicks his tongue skillfully while simultaneously holding your writhing hips down tightly. You try not to say his name too loudly as you realized the door was still open. In your head, you prayed no one was awake or would walk down the hallway.
“I’ve vanted this for days.” He rasped between licks. “I vanted this so bad.”
You’re at a point of not being able to answer as it all just felt too good. He even added a finger at some point which really was bring you close to an orgasm. You felt it in the pit of your stomach, intense and waiting. It’s almost like he knew too, as he got even more ravenous it seemed.
Wet squelching sounds and your soft moans fill the room. Your mind starts to get fuzzy as pleasure over takes you. You tug a bit on his tail to let him know you’re very, very close. His tongue lapped quicker and unrelentingly. His hands held you down tighter and his brows furrowed in concentration.
Soon, you were arching your back quietly sobbing as you came against his face. Your thighs clenched his head between them and your body jerked in his grip. A hand clenched the pillow behind you tightly as fluid dropped from you. It didn’t last long, but by the end of it you went limp.
“Very very good, love.” He praised rubbing your side. “You tasted nicely.”
“Yeah…?” You breathed watching him climb on top of you.
He moves his head and starts to kiss your neck once more. “Yes. Very.”
He lets you rest for a bit, simply kissing and admiring your post orgasm glow. Your mind was fuzzy, but you still wanted more.
After a while you muster, “I want you inside me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please,”, you nod quickly. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
His fingers intertwine yours as he kisses your forehead gently. There’s a brief pause before he answered.
“If you wish.”
He moves to position himself and you lay back on the sheets all the way. You never paid much attention to his dick until now. It was definitely not small, or thin. Not that you expected to be, but you didn’t expect it to be on the bigger side either. Two veins ran up across the side and even in the dark you could see a bit of a glisten with pre-cum, which ran down the side a bit as well.
He nuzzles his tail under your chin so you’d look into his eyes again. Then softly, “Are you ready? Are you sure?”
You hold onto his bicep and nod, “Yes.”
He kisses you for a final time and carefully teased your folds with his tip. After a bit of anticipation, he begins to push inside. Both your breaths hitched. The feeling was immediately pressure and once he was halfway you felt the slight burn from the stretch. He noticed you wince and stopped to give a you a second to adjust.
When the burn became pleasure you tapped his shoulder to continue. He rested his head between your shoulder and neck as he pushed all the way in, groaning deeply. His hands were back on your hips tightly.
“Ah, now I need a minute…”, he laughed.
After a few seconds and exciting filling your body once more, you decide to tease him. “Trying not to cum?”
“Sh-shut up. Please.”, he whined gripping tighter. “Because I will.”
It feels like forever before he slowly starts to thrust into you. Immediately pleasure fills your nerves. Your pussy clenches around him, making quiet slick noises whenever his dick moves in and out of you. You’ve longed for this for so long and all thoughts about feeling vulnerable went out the window. Over time, thrusting became ramming. His hips move desperately, chasing a high. Your back is already arching once more and he moves a hand to hold you down by your stomach.
You get the brilliant idea to fight against this, continuously trying to arch your back more and more.
“Stay down, love.” He husked, but you ignore it and started deliberately squirming more. His thrusts stammered as he struggled against you trying to hold you down.
After a while, he gave up being nice finally and pulled out of you quickly to flip you over on your stomach. You grin into the pillow as he holds your arms behind your back and push down, hard.
Hissing, “You will listen to me.”
Slowly, he pushes inside once more not waiting for an answer. It was so gratifying to feel his full body weigh against yours, filling you with immense pleasure. It satisfied an itch you didn’t know needed scratching.
You start letting out muffled unrestrained moans as he filled you completely. Above you, you heard Kurt’s strings of curses and hungry growls. His nails dug into your arms as he aimed for the sweet spot inside you. Something to send you over the edge.
Several more minutes passed as the room not filled with husky breaths and sounds of skin slapping. Both of you tried to hold out as long as possible, but you couldn’t hold back anymore. This time there was no real way to warn Kurt before you came.
He could tell just like before you were close and his tail started to rub against your clit quickly. He whispered encouraging you to finish, as he was right behind you. You could tell by how he started whispering quick in german and by how his thighs started to tremble more over time. His claws sunk a bit into your flesh in the most intoxicating way.
You body twitched once more as you came undone. This time harder than before. As your muscles clenched around him tightly, you squealed and moaned his name not caring if anyone heard anymore.
He slows his thrusts to you could ride the wave of your orgasm and then slowly pulled out of you just in time to cum on your lower back and ass. He groaned sounding almost animalistic as he came, throwing his head back.
You had already plopped onto the bed by the time he finished. Your body was sore already in the most delicious way. Blissed out you didn’t notice him move to grab something off the ground to clean your backside with, but you did hear his sweet praises.
“Waz I…good?” He whispered laying next to you. His hand rubbed your back just about the curve of your ass.
You turned your head to stare into his eyes and smiled, “Otherworldly.”
He chuckled, “I have never heard of that one before..”
You move to snuggle closer to him. The ache between your legs told you that you probably will be limping slightly tomorrow but you didn’t care. All that matter right now was being in his strong arms.
“We should probably close the door at some point, Kurt.” You murmur starting to fall asleep. “Y’know before someone sees us?”
He doesn’t say anything and bamfs quickly to close the door. The smell of sulfur fills your room by the time he’s back in your bed and wrapping his arms around you.
“Better?” He whispered.
You nod against his soft chest. His fur was almost softer than your sheets. It was hard to rid it the urge to fall asleep. You feel him kiss your temple as you closed your eyes.
After a few seconds, his deep voice woke you just a bit, “I’m going to wake you up to pee soon, just letting you know.”
You groan but ignore him. Inside your heart flutters at the small detail of him even knowing about that. He really cares about you, you wondered how you got so lucky with him.
His heart beat and his warm body heat lures you to sleep once more, but not before he lovingly kissed your temple one more time.
✦ Nightcrawler (Kurt Wagner) x Reader ✦ Rating: E ✦ Word Count: ~8,121 ✦
𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞:
Exiled by your father to the covenant of Saint Mirasel, your untamable spirit was meant to be broken and reshaped into piety. But the convent is a cage, and you’ve made it your mission to wage a silent war against the covenant and Sister Agatha . Every broken rule is a victory, every act of defiance the sweetest reward. Your rebellion is your only solace, until the day a new priest arrives, Father Wagner.
I’ll also give this warning:
I don’t wish to upset anyone, but highly religious readers may find this content uncomfortable. This work contains blasphemous/devotional erotica involving sacred imagery, If that isn’t your thing, exit peacefully.
Rain lashed against the carriage window, blurring the world outside into a smear of weeping gray and green. It was a fitting for the day your life was to end, or at least, the life you’d known. The carriage wheels sank into the mud, as you rolled down the road.
The iron gates of Saint Mirasel groaned open like the jaws of some great, stone beast, hungry to swallow you whole. Your father’s last words still rang in your ears, colder than the autumn wind. Humiliation. Reputation. Tame that spirit of yours before it damns you entirely. Damn me? you thought with a smirk that felt sharp and brittle on your lips. you were already in hell.
As the carriage lurched to a final, jarring halt before the looming grey spires that clawed at the bruised sky, you knew it for what it was: a tomb. A beautifully carved, piously maintained tomb for the living. The convent was a fortress of gray stone, its spires clawing at a bruised sky.
As you stepped down from the carriage, a relentless rain, a miserable drizzle that had plagued the entire journey, slicked the ancient stones and plastered your hair to your cheeks.
Two sisters, their faces pale and impassive as communion wafers, glided out to meet you. They did not offer a hand, only took your travel case with a silent, synchronized motion that was deeply unsettling. Their wimples were starched to an impossible stiffness, framing faces that held no curiosity, no pity, only a bland acceptance.
“Welcome to the Convent of Saint Mirasel, child,” the taller one said, her voice dry like the rustle of leaves. “Your father has made a generous donation for your spiritual education.”
“He bought my cage, you mean,” you muttered, the words sharp and bitter on your tongue.
The second nun’s lips thinned into a bloodless line. “Pride is a sin one must purge.”
They guided you through a labyrinth of whitewashed corridors that smelled of old wax, damp stone, and something else, a cloying scent like wilted lilies. Every footstep echoed, a profane intrusion into the hallowed quiet.
They led you not to a comfortable warm room, but to a small cold prison-like chamber with a stone floors and a single high, barred window. They took your silks first. The deep emerald velvet of your traveling dress, the fine lace cuffs, the small pearl earrings your mother had left you.
They unwound your hair from its intricate braids, letting it fall in a damp, tangled mess down your back. You stood there in your thin chemise, shivering as much from humiliation as from the chill that seeped from the very walls. They didn’t just strip you of your clothes; they were peeling away your identity, layer by layer, until only the defiant woman remained.
Then came the habit. A shapeless, scratchy woolen tunic the color of dishwater. A coarse rope for a belt. A simple veil to cover your hair. The wool chafed your skin, a constant irritation. When you looked at your faint reflection in the murky glass of the window, you saw a stranger. A ghost. A prisoner.
The days that followed blurred into a suffocating routine. Matins before dawn, the air in the chapel so cold your breath plumed like a prayer. Lauds. Prime. Terce. Sext. None. Vespers. Compline. The hours were marked not by a clock, but by the tolling of a bell and the shuffling of sandaled feet on stone.
In the refectory, you ate stale bread and thin soup in absolute silence, the only sound the scrape of spoons against wooden bowls. The garden walls were so high they blocked out the world, trapping the sky in a perfect, damning square of blue.
This was meant to tame you. The Convent was meant to quiet your unruly thoughts, the labor to humble your hands, the prayers to soothe your rebellious heart, It did the opposite.
The silence only made the thoughts in your head scream louder. you replayed every forbidden dance, every stolen kiss with the stable boy, his hands rough on your waist, his mouth tasting sweet and of rebellion. you imagined your father’s face, tight with fury and shame, and a fresh wave of resentment would wash over you.
Your defiance became a small, secret war. you would let a smirk touch your lips during the rosary, tracing the lines of a lover’s face in your mind instead of meditating on the teachings of god. You would “accidentally” knock over a bucket of water in the scullery, just to hear the satisfying clatter break the quiet. When Sister Agatha chided me for your posture, telling you to sit straight and “present a modest heart to God,” you slouched further, your spine a deliberate, insolent curve.
“You have a devil in you, child,” she would hiss, her eyes like chips of flint.
“Perhaps he finds the company in here dreadfully dull,” you’d reply, earning yourself another night of scrubbing floors on your knees until the lye soap ate at your skin.
It was during the third week of your incarceration that he arrived. Rumors had trickled through the hushed ranks of the novices. The old Father Michel, had finally succumbed to his wheezing cough. A new priest was being sent from the diocese to oversee the convent’ in his place.
We were all gathered in the main chapel for the Sunday sermon, the air thick with incense and the scent of damp wool. you were in your usual place in the back, half-slumped against the cold stone pillar, your mind a million miles away. The nuns began to murmur, a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a rustle of anticipation.
Then he stepped to the pulpit, he was not old and stooped like Father Michel. He was tall and moved with a fluid grace that seemed out of place in his black cassock. But it was his face that made the breath catch in your throat, His skin was a deep startling indigo, and his eyes, when they swept over the congregation, glowed with the unsettling light of yellow embers. Two fingers on each hand, three toes on each foot, a long prehensile tail that twitched almost imperceptibly beneath the heavy fabric of his vestments. A faint, almost subliminal scent of sulfur and ozone, like the air after a lightning strike, cut through the cloying sweetness of the incense.
He cleared his throat, and the sound was a low hum that vibrated through the stone floor and up your spine. “In the Gospel of Matthew,” he began, his voice a rich, velvety baritone with a melodic accent.
“we are told, ‘If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.’” His gaze continued its slow, deliberate sweep of the chapel, and for a heart-stopping moment, his glowing yellow eyes met yours.
They didn’t hold condemnation or judgment. They held… something else. A profound, ancient sadness, and a flicker of what looked like understanding. It was as if he could see right through the drab habit, past the defiant smirk, and into the raging heart caged in your chest.
“But what of the temptations that do not come from without?” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper that still carried to every corner of the cavernous space.
“What of the darkness that is already within us? The shadows that coil in the quietest corners of our own hearts? We cannot simply pluck out a part of our own soul.” His eyes were still on you and a shiver entirely different from the chapel’s chill, traced its way down your arms.
For the first time since arriving at Saint Mirasel, you were not bored, you were not angry, you were utterly and irrevocably fascinated. The sermon droned on, words about sin and redemption, but you heard none of it. you only heard the hypnotic cadence of his voice and felt the burn of his otherworldly gaze as he spoke of a darkness, you knew all too well.
The whispers started the moment Father Kurt descended from the pulpit, a tide of fear and awe that followed him into the sacristy. Sister Agatha made the sign of the cross so vigorously you thought she might sprain a wrist. Young Sister Marie, a girl barely sixteen with eyes like a startled fawn, looked pale enough to faint.
They saw the pointed ears that peeked from his dark, blue-streaked curls, the faint outline of spaded tail, restless beneath his cassock, and they saw a test from God. A monster sent to prove their faith, you however saw something beautiful.
Where they averted their eyes, you found you could not look away. The image of him was seared into your mind, skin the color of a midnight sky, eyes like twin dying suns, and a mouth that, despite the hint of fangs at the corners, seemed shaped for gentle words.
The incense, usually so cloying, now mingled with that strange, clean scent of ozone he carried, creating a perfume that was both holy and electric. The hollow-eyed sisters, the endless prayers, the suffocating piety of Saint Mirasel, all of it faded into a grey backdrop against the vivid, shocking color of him.
After that your rebellion found a new, singular focus. It was no longer a scattered, petty war against the convent itself, but a focused campaign to understand the unholy holy father. Your curiosity, once a mischievous spark, sharpened into something venomous and sweet. you wanted to know what lay beneath that placid, priestly exterior. you wanted to see if you could make those golden eyes flare with something other than piousness.
Your first move was to volunteer for library duty, a tedious task of dusting ancient crumbling hymnals that no one ever wanted. The library was his domain, a small vaulted chamber where he prepared his sermons. You waited, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, until you heard his distinctive near-silent footfalls. He had two broad toes on each foot, a detail you’d noticed as he walked to the pulpit, and they made a unique scuffing sound on the stone. He entered, and the small room suddenly felt charged, the air humming. He inclined his head, a gesture of polite acknowledgment.
“Sister,” he murmured, his voice that gentle baritone, with a slight accent that seemed to vibrate in your bones.
“Father Kurt,” you said, your own voice sounding sweet and girlish. You held up a heavy tome. “I was hoping you could help me. This passage on the Nephilim… it speaks of angels who fell to earth, drawn by the beauty of mortal women. It seems a great weakness for a divine being.” Your eyes were locked on his in challenge.
He moved closer, and you had to fight the urge to step even closer than what one would consider acceptable. The scent of brimstone and rain was stronger now. He looked down at the page, his long, three-fingered hand hovering near yours. you could see the fine, dark fur that covered his skin, the glint of black claws at the tips of his fingers.
“The capacity for love, for beauty… it is not a weakness, child,” he said softly, his gaze still on the book. “It is a reflection of God’s own heart. The sin was not in the loving, but in the abandonment of duty. In choosing the self over the divine plan.” His golden eyes lifted from the page and met yours.
For a breath, just a single stolen breath, his formal mask slipped. you saw a flicker of something in their depths. Then, he looked away, his gaze dropping back to the scripture. “The line between devotion and desire is often… perilously thin.”
Emboldened by what you saw in his eyes you began to linger after Vespers. As the other sisters filed out, their whispers trailing behind them, you would find a reason to stay. A misplaced rosary, a prayer book to return. We would speak of faith, of repentance, but you would twist the conversation, nudging it toward the raw edges of the soul.
“Is it possible for a soul to hunger for something it does not know, Father?” you asked one evening, as the last of the light from the stained-glass windows painted jewels on the stone floor.
His tail gave a single, soft thump against the leg of the pew he was tidying. “The soul hungers for God, always.”
“But what if it feels… different?” you pressed him, stepping closer. “What if the hunger is not for psalms and incense, but for… understanding? For a connection that feels more real than a prayer whispered to an empty ceiling?”
He turned to face you fully then. The shadows in the chapel were deepening, making his indigo skin seem black, his eyes burn even brighter.
“That is a dangerous path, my child. It is the path of pride. To believe your own hunger is truer than faith.” His voice was still gentle, but there was a new firmness in it, a warning. And yet, his eyes held yours, and you saw the conflict there. He was a priest, speaking doctrine, but under that he was also something else, something that recognized the hunger you spoke of.
Your final, boldest move was the confessional. The small, dark box was intimacy in itself, a space designed for secrets. you knelt on the worn cushion, the scent of old wood and his unique, sulfurous presence filling the enclosed space. you could see the silhouette of his pointed ear through the screen.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, the words feeling like a lie coming from your lips. “It has been four days since my last confession.” you paused, letting the silence stretch. “My thoughts wander during prayer.”
“To what do they wander, my child?” His voice was a low rumble in the darkness.
“To you, Father.” The silence on the other side of the screen was deafening. you could hear your own blood rushing in your ears. you imagined his hand freezing over his missal, his tail going still.
“I think of your sermon,” you continued quickly, pulling a thread of truth into your fabrication. “About the darkness within. I find myself… drawn to it. I want to understand it...I want to understand you.”
You heard him take a slow, deep breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained, tighter than you had ever heard it.
“To be curious about God’s mysteries is not a sin. But to fixate on the vessel instead of the message… that is a form of idolatry.” He sounded like he was reciting a lesson to himself as much as to you. “For your penance, you will say ten Hail Mary’s, and you will pray for clarity, child. Pray that God shows you the difference between spiritual curiosity… and temptation.”
He made the sign of the cross, his voice a strained whisper as he spoke the Latin words of absolution. you pushed yourself up, your knees aching, and slid the door open, stepping back out into the candlelit gloom of the chapel. Your heart was hammering not with guilt, but with a wild, triumphant thrill. you had touched the crack in his composure. you had made the unholy holy father falter yet again.
Dawn became a clandestine sacrament. Long before the matins bell shook the other sisters from their thin mattresses, you would slip from your cell. The cloisters were a labyrinth of blue-grey shadows, the air still and cold, thick with the scent of old wax and older secrets. you’d find him in the chapel, lighting the votive candles. The small flames would catch on the indigo planes of his face, making his golden eyes glitter like treasure in a tomb.
He would be arranging his missal or polishing the silver chalice, and your arrival would make him pause. He never seemed surprised, only resigned.
“You are awake early, Sister,” he would say, his voice a low thread of darkness in the quiet hall.
“The silence is too loud in my room, Father,” you’d reply, moving to stand beside the flickering candles. “I came to hear a voice that can make sense of it.”
Your discussions were a careful, dangerous dance. you’d ask about Lucifer’s fall, framing it as a question of passion. He would answer with careful scripture, his words a shield against the true meaning of your questions, but you saw the truth in the details.
you saw it in the way his hands, would tremble as he adjusted a wick. you watched his long, prehensile tail twitch with emotion beneath his cassock, a restless tell he could not control. He would grip his rosary, the black beads clicking through his fingers in a frantic, silent prayer as you pressed closer, your questions becoming more pointed and personal.
The older nuns began to take notice as well, Sister Agatha’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits whenever she saw you.
“The girl spends more time seeking counsel than a Borgia Pope,” she hissed to another sister, loud enough for you to hear. “Penance is meant to cleanse the soul, not provide an excuse for distraction.”
Your punishments grew, more floors to scrub, more prayers to recite on the cold stones of the chapel. But kneeling in penance only gave you more time to think of him, your Hail Mary’s became a litany of his features, the curve of his pointed ears, the glow of his eyes, the imagined texture of the fur on his skin. Your soul never hungering for God; it was ravenous for him.
Then the storm season came, breaking over the mountains with biblical fury. The sky turned a purple-grey, and the wind howled around the spires of Saint Mirasel like a hungry wolf. The convent became even more claustrophobic, the air heavy and electric with the coming storm. Restlessness coiled in your gut, a frantic energy with nowhere to go. you felt caged, suffocated by the smell of wet stone and piety.
That evening, you couldn’t bear it. you slipped out of Vespers early, forgoing your veil, your scapular, everything but the simple, scratchy habit. you needed to feel the wind, the rain, something real and untamed. The cloister gardens were a frenzy of motion, rose bushes thrashing, ancient trees groaning.
Rain began to fall, first as fat heavy drops, then as a torrential downpour. It soaked your hair in seconds, plastering the thin wool of your habit to your body, the fabric turning dark and heavy, clinging to your breasts, your waist, your legs. you threw your head back, letting the cold-water stream down your face, a violent but welcome baptism.
You were in the open courtyard, lost in the storm’s embrace, when a flash of lightning bleached the world white. And in that moment when the sky lit up, he was there. Standing at the edge of the covered walkway, his form a dark silhouette against the stone. The next roll of thunder covered the sound of his approach, you only knew he was there when his hand closed around your wrist.
His grip was not that of a priest’s. It was not the gentle, hesitant touch of our clandestine meetings. It was strong and desperate, concern etched through every finger wrapped around you.
“What are you doing?” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. “You will catch your death and your head is uncovered...T-This is madness!”
His reprimand was a torrent of words, but you barely heard them, all you could feel was his hand. Through the soaked wool of your sleeve, his skin was a shocking heat. you could feel the strange configuration of his fingers, the slight sharp pressure of his claws against your skin. The scent of him, ozone, sulfur, and something deeply masculine and wild, overwhelmed the smell of the rain.
You both froze and the world narrowed to that of his grip, the rain sluicing down around you both, the thunder crackling directly overhead, drowning out the sound of your own frantic breaths. you looked from his hand on your wrist up to his face.
His eyes were wide, glowing in the gloom, and they were full of a terrifying, beautiful war. There was the priest’s concern, yes, but beneath it, raw and undeniable, was longing. A desperate, hungry wanting that mirrored the ache in your own chest. And under it all was a deep, profound self-hatred that twisted his features into a mask of anguish. It was the most honest expression you had ever seen on his face.
He saw that you saw it and his mouth opened, a soundless gasp. Then, as if your skin had turned to hot iron, he snatched his hand back. He stumbled away from you, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
He didn’t say another word, just turned and fled back into the shadows of the cloister, his tail lashing once, a violent whip of black against the grey stone. He left you standing alone in the heart of the storm, the heat of his touch a brand on your wrist, the image of his tormented eyes burned forever into your soul.
He had left you in the storm, but the storm had followed you inside. It raged not in the sky, but in your blood, a tempest of heat. The brand of his touch on your wrist did not fade. you could feel it in your sleep, a phantom heat that bloomed and spread through your entire body.
Sleep was no longer a refuge, your dreams became a blasphemous tapestry woven from that moment in the rain. You dreamt you were kneeling at the altar, but instead of receiving the Eucharist, his mouth would descend on yours, the taste of him more sacred and damning than any communion wine.
You saw him bowing in penance before you, the long, spade-tipped tail that he kept so carefully hidden now free, coiling around your ankle, then your calf, its supple strength a shockingly intimate touch that made you gasp awake in the dark.
The confessional screen would melt like hot wax under your gaze, leaving nothing between you and his golden eyes would burn with the same fever you felt in your own soul.
The scent of sandalwood and incense, once a smell of piety, became carnal. It was the scent of his skin in your dreams, the smoke clinging to the dark fur of his arms as he reached for you, his Latin prayers turning to low moans against the skin of your throat.
You would wake flushed and trembling, the sheets tangled around your legs, your hands moving to your throat, your waist, reliving the phantom touches of a beautiful demon you had invited into your prayers. These were visions that could never, ever reach the confessional.
The daylight hours became an exercise in exquisite torture. The convent, once merely suffocating, was now a stage for your silent, secret play. A glance across the refectory as you ate your meager soup, his eyes would find yours over the heads of the other novices, and the world would fall away. In those seconds, you spoke volumes. I see you. I feel it too. Don’t stop.
you began to manufacture sins. you invented lapses in faith, moments of pride, petty cruelties to the other girls, all for the sole purpose of earning a private audience with him. you needed to be near the fire that was consuming you, even if it meant getting burned.
“Father,” you’d say, your voice a demure whisper in the heavy silence of the library, “I was cruel to Sister Marie today. I coveted the smoothness of her hands, untouched by lye soap.”
He would stand by the shelves, not looking at you, his knuckles white where he gripped a heavy theological text. A faint, dark flush would creep up from the collar of his cassock, a blush of color against his indigo skin.
“Vanity is a simple sin, Sister,” he would reply, his voice tight, strained. “Pray for humility.” But his eyes would be fixed on your hands, red and raw from scrubbing floors, and you knew he wasn’t thinking of your vanity. He was thinking of the storm, of his fingers wrapped around your wrist, of the sin we were committing with every shared breath. The silence between you became more charged than any words.
One afternoon, you were tasked with polishing the silver, and he was there, transcribing a passage from Isaiah. The room was small, the air still. The only sounds were the soft scrape of his quill on parchment and the rhythmic whisper of your cloth against the chalice.
you watched his hand trembling, a barely perceptible tremor that sent a corresponding shiver through you. He could feel you watching him. you knew it as surely as you knew your own name.
He set the quill down with a sharp, definitive click. “Is there something you require, Sister?” he asked, his voice rough.
you stopped polishing, your gaze lifting from his hand to his face. “Only salvation, Father,” you murmured, your lips curving into a small, guilty smile.
His jaw tightened and for a long agonizing moment, he simply stared at you, his golden eyes filled with a desperate burning inferno. He looked like a man being torn in two.
Then he pushed back from the table abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor, stalking from the room without another word. His tail lashing once, a sharp agitated flick of his cassock before the heavy oak door swung shut behind him, leaving you alone with the scent of him and the thunder of your own heart.
Sleep was a battlefield you had already lost. Tonight, the visions were not enough. The phantom touches, the dreamed-of heat, they were pale imitations of the fire he had lit on your wrist in the storm. Restlessness was a physical sickness, a frantic energy coiling in your belly.
You slipped from your room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floors. The rain had returned, a soft persistent tapping against the high stained-glass windows of the cloister, a mournful drumbeat counting down to something you could feel in your bones.
You didn’t know where you were going until you saw the faint, flickering light spilling from the chapel’s half-open doors. A magnet on your soul as you pushed the heavy oak door; the groan of its hinges lost in a distant roll of thunder.
The air inside was thick with incense, wax, and the palpable weight of his prayer. He was there, kneeling before the main altar, his back to you, a dark silhouette against the eternal flame of the sanctuary lamp. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped in a posture of utter defeat. His voice was a low, broken murmur, Latin prayers fraying at the edges, not a plea for salvation but a confession of despair, he was as undone as you were.
You should have left, you should have turned and fled back to the cold safety of your room, each step was a conscious sin. you walked down the central aisle, drawn by the undeniable pulse of warmth that seemed to roll off him in waves, a physical heat in the damp chill of the chapel. He sensed you before you were halfway there, his prayer faltered, his broad shoulders tensing. He did not turn. He knew.
“Y/N.” It left his lips not as a question, not as a reprimand, but as a plea. A prayer for a disaster that had already arrived. The sound of it, spoken in that voice, in this place, broke the last thread of your resolve.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you stammered, the excuse sounding pathetic and thin even to your own ears, as you stopped a few feet behind him.
“You should not be here,” he whispered, his voice weary. “Go back to your room. Please.” The crack in his tone was a chasm. The priest was gone, only the tormented man remained.
You took another step, closing the distance between you until you were kneeling beside him on the cold marble steps of the altar, your habits brushed. you could feel the heat of his body, smell the sulfur and ozone clinging to him like a shroud.
You reached out, your hand hovering in the space between you, not knowing what you meant to do, he shifted and your hands met. It was an accident, a simple brush of skin, your fingers against the back of his furred hand. His skin was fire, a fever you wanted to catch, the fine dark fur impossibly soft, the hard ridges of his knuckles. Neither of you withdrew.
“Are you not afraid of me?” he asks at last, and the quiet is a chapel all its own around him.
You shake your head without looking away. “I’m… mesmerized by your beauty.”
He makes a soft sound like a wounded animal. “Do not say such things. I am trying—” He bites off the sentence with a click of fang.
“Trying to be holy?” you ask.
“Yes.” He swallows, the sound loud in the candlelit church. “Trying to keep you holy.”
You shift into the sliver of space that remains between his body and the unforgiving stone of the altar. “What if I don’t want to be?”
His head turns slowly, and his glowing golden eyes meet yours. They are filled with utter ruin. All the fight, the years of pious restraint, has been burned away, leaving only a raw, bottomless hunger that mirrors the ache in your own soul.
“God help me,” he breathes, and it sounds less like a prayer and more like a curse upon himself, a helpless sound tears from his throat as he moves.
The discipline of months, of years, of a lifetime of penance, forgotten as he lunges forward towards you, it steals the very air from your lungs. His lips crashing against yours, in a frantic collision of lips and tongues. It is the kiss of a drowning man finding air, of a starving man finding bread.
A thrilling sting of pain blossoms on your bottom lip as his fangs graze the tender flesh. His hands tangle in your hair, cradling your head as if you are a fragile holy relic he is about to shatter into a million pieces.
A moan spills from your throat into his mouth, your arms snake around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper. His warmth, a furnace against you, pulls a little cry from you. “—ah—”
He devours the sound, a shudder wracking his frame. When the tip of his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open for him without a thought. The rough, wet rasp of his tongue against yours drags a sob from the depths of your chest. “Nnnh—Kurt—”
He flinches, as if his own name is a brand against his skin, then surges forward into you. “Again,” he begs against your lips, his voice a whisper. “Say it again, Engel—”
“Kurt.” You breathe his name, and he trembles from head to foot. His prehensile tail coils around your waist, his strength makes your knees buckle. He catches you effortlessly, his claws tracing the slope of your spine, mapping each vertebra as if to memorize all of you.
With a low whine, he mouths at your collarbone, his fangs grazing your skin until you jolt with each careful nip. And then he is guiding you backward, his body and tail pressing you against the altar until the cold, unforgiving stone bites into the backs of your thighs.
He lifts you as if you weigh nothing, his hands bracketing your hips. Setting you down, his chest heaving, and presses his forehead to your sternum.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice raw, each word pulled from him with agonizing force. “Tell me to stop—” He swallows, a tremor running through his whole body.
“I need you, Kurt,” you breathe, your voice fierce despite the tremor in your own body. “Please.”
Whispers of denial”we can’t” and “this is a sin, verdammt” are lost between gasps, swallowed by the wet consuming heat of your mouths. The altar candle flickers wildly, its flame dancing in the draft. His hands fumble with the coarse rope at your waist, pulling at the scratchy wool of your habit.
“Kurt,” you breathe, and he moans, the indecent sound echoes in the house of God, He lowers his head, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat. “Vergib mir…”
He shoves the rough fabric of your habit upward, exposing you to the cold air and his burning, golden gaze. He drops to his knees between your legs, his hands tracing the line of your thighs, his claws a torturous caress. He kneels at the altar like a penitent and pushes your knees apart, the pad of his thumb stroking soothing circles into your inner thigh.
“Shh,” he murmurs when your muscles jump and quiver under his touch. His warm breath ghosts over you as he leans in.
The lap of his tongue is devastating, a rough velvet that catches on every sensitive peak, a rasp that makes your hips jolt upward with a cry that ricochets off the cold stone walls.
“—oh! God—” You clamp a hand over your mouth, but you couldn’t care less how loud you are. He growls low in his throat, the sound a pleased vibration against your cunt that makes something behind your navel flare blindingly bright.
Your back arches off the stone, your hands gripping the edge of the altar until your knuckles are white. The holy place, the scent of frankincense, the crucifix hanging in the gloom, it all dissolves into a vortex of pure unholy sensation.
He eats you like he’s starving, like you are the Eucharist and he is taking communion for the first time. His claws score the edge of the altar beside your hips, carving deep crescent moons into the wood. His tail cinches tighter at your waist, tugging you back down when you try to writhe away, to escape into his mouth.
“Gut,” he mumbles into you, the word dragged from deep in his throat. “So gut—” His tongue presses along your folds, flicks and circles your clit, and when he opens his mouth wider and pulls you in with a soft suck you almost come right there, Your fingers fist in the thick, indigo hair at his crown, your head thrown back so far the world becomes a stained-glass blur.
You writhe as he pins you, his hands slide under your thighs to spread you more, to hold you steady while he worships. Fangs scrape along the soft flesh where thigh becomes hip, and you jerk and gasp “—unhh,” and he flattens his tongue and laves at you until the sting melts into heat.
He doesn’t let up. Not until you are shaking uncontrollably, until you are sobbing his name, breathless.
“I’m, oh God...Kurt, I’m—” and then your climax hits, and his mouth is relentless, his rough growl mixed with little pleased hums of “Mmm, ja,” and “Mein Engel,” again and again, like rosary beads warmed between his lips.
When he finally rises, his chin is wet, his mouth stained a dark indigo. His eyes are molten gold, brighter than any candle flame, looking both ruined and renewed. He braces his claws on the altar beside your shoulders, his breath coming in ragged pants against your mouth. His tail crawls higher, curling around your thigh to tease at your still-throbbing core, you shiver so hard your teeth click together.
He is careful stripping off his robes, but the frantic speed betrays him as buttons pop, and a seam gives way with a soft tearing sound. You help him, your fingers tearing at his vestments, needing to feel the skin you have only ever dreamed of touching.
The sight of him in the flickering candlelight was a beautiful blasphemy. The dark indigo fur that covered his chest was not a flat color, but the deep, impossible hue of a twilight sky just after the sun has bled out below the horizon. It was a like velvet, the nap of it catching the light, shifting from near-black to a dark royal blue with the rise and fall of his every breath. It softened the hard swell of his pectorals and clung to the chiseled lines of his abdomen, making him seem both beast and seraph. A darker denser trail lead down the hard planes of his stomach, to his cock, as It rested heavy against his thigh, thick and hard.
Silver scars that laddered his side, a map of past torments now rendered in the dim light. You follow one with your finger and he whines deep in his chest. You press a kiss to it, and he bends his head to press his forehead to yours, cradling your head with his hands.
His arms, corded with the dense muscle were dusted with the same fine indigo nap. The black claws that he kept close, the tail, long and demonic, twitched, the spade tip brushing against the bare skin of your leg. He was a masterpiece of the divine, a holy creature of the night.
When his cock presses hot and heavy along your thigh, you go lightheaded. He’s thick, heavier at the head, the color a dusky violet, pearls gathering at the tip already. His tail slips from your thigh to your waist and squeezes, claws cupping your hip and soothing you.
“verdammt, entschuldigung,” heat runs down your spine. “I have dreamt of this,” he admits both shame and hunger tainting his voice. “I have gone to the altar and bled from your knees asking for these thoughts to be taken but forgive me they won’t go away.” He swallows.
“I think of you too. Often, even when praying I can’t stop thinking of you,” you say, voice not steady and not sorry. “I want you, Father.”
His eyes go darker. “Kurt,” he begs. You nod, saying his name sweetly, a whisper into his pointed violet ear, and he shudders so violently it’s as if the whole nave breathes.
He rose up, positioning himself over you, his golden eyes locked on yours, searing you with his shame and desire. “I will burn for this,” he whispered.
“Then burn with me,” you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist.The crown of him presses into you and you both gasp.
“—Gott,” slips from his mouth that shakes through his entire frame. He stops panting, his claws carving deeper into the oak of the altar. His tail tightens and loosens around your waist.
“Sag mir,” he rasps, his voice raw with effort. “Tell me. Is it too much?”
“I feel...so full,” you sigh, your legs wrapping instinctively tighter around his waist. The rough wool of your habit is bunched at your hips, and the small silver crucifix your father gave you presses coolly against your breastbone. “Don’t stop.”
“Engel,” he groans, the name a prayer on his lips as he pushes deeper. The pressure blooms into bliss, so heavy that it nails you to the altar in the most exquisite way imaginable, a fullness so complete it makes you stupid with pleasure.
When he bottoms out against your cervix, his forehead drops to rest against your jaw. The tremor in his powerful thighs, the rasp of his purr where it thrums from his chest into yours, the soft brush of indigo fur against your ribs, the coil of his tail around your waist. You reach up and stroke the base of one of his pointed ears, and he makes a sound like he is melting into pure joy.
He begins to move. Every thrust is gentle at first, then a little less so. He looks at you as he moves, not at your mouth, not at your breasts now bared where your habit has fallen aside, but directly into your eyes, as if searching for your soul.
“Look at me,” he pleads, and when you do, he murmurs a fast prayer in German, words tumbling out. “Heilige Maria, Mutter Gottes, sieh, wie schön sie ist, sieh, wie sie mich annimmt—”
You moan and he groans back, hips snapping faster, the clack of the wooden altar and the slap of his body meeting yours. The tail around your waist climbs, slides down your spine and curls gently around your thigh holding you open farther.
“So good,” you choke out shameless. “Fuck me, Father—nhh yes—”
“Kurt,” he whispers insistently, and fucks you harder. “Oh please, ja—”
He changes the angle of his thrusts and a universe of stars explodes behind your eyes. The velvet nap of his chest caresses your nipples with every powerful thrust. The claws of his left hand pin your hip to the altar while his right slides down between your slick bodies to find your clit.
The pads of his fingers are rough, and even the lightest stroke makes you cry out. He is careful with your pleasure, circling and tapping, matching the tempo of his thrusts, listening to your body like scripture. He adjusts when your breath hitches, chasing the pleasure when you gasp, “—there, there, please—oh!”
You cry out for him and he is already there, jostling to nestle deeper, to find a new angle, to press you into the dark with a groan. The stained glass of saints’ faces peek through carved leaves and grapes and watch you come undone, your breath fogs in the cool air of the chapel.
He murmurs, “Entschuldige, entschuldige, I should not, I know, but I am weak,” while his hips snap and you choke “—don’t you dare stop,” and he laughs.
“I…” He breaks off, shuddering. “I will not last. You feel… I am—” You wrap your legs around him and nod, dizzy. “With me.” Your voice is a desperate plea. “Come with me.”
He whimpers, a sound unbecoming of any priest, and his control snaps finally. His thrusts becoming deep, almost brutal if not for the way he presses his forehead to yours, losing himself in your eyes.
Your orgasm hits suddenly, a burning fire down your spine. “Ah! ahh...ah! Kurt—” Your voice breaks as your inner muscles clamp down around him. He gives a strangled yell, his tail tightening around you a groan from his chest echoing through the room.
He fucks you through your climax, as you sob he whispers to you as you shake, nonsense and prayer, German and English, “So, gut. Mein Engel, you are...”
You can’t stop shaking as he kisses your cheeks where tears have dried on your skin. When you come down enough to breathe, no longer sobbing, he stills and presses his mouth to your hairline. The cathedral fills with quiet again, only alive with your gasping breath and his purr.
He collapses, rolling to brace on an elbow, sliding out of you inch by slow inch with a shared hiss of overstimulation. The tail unwound from around you, and he shivers as he looks down at where you glisten, at the mess that was both of you on the sacred altar. A flush stained the fur of his throat a deeper blue.
“I am—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Forgive me.”
You blinked tears away and cup his cheek, the fur on his cheek was even softer then the fur on the rest of his body, the bone beneath strong, as he leaned into your palm like a cat starved of touch.
“There is nothing to forgive,” you said simply, and meant it. “I wanted you. I want you.” He inhales through his nose, and it comes out in a little broken huff. He noses your wrist and kisses the heel of your palm.
“You are so… good.” It is not a word you’ve prized for yourself, but in his mouth, you might believe it.
He lifts you gently from the altar, his movements tender, as he fetches a folded linen cloth, usually set aside for rinsing the chalice and paten.
He cleans you like you are precious, his touch now infinitely careful. When you flinch, your skin oversensitive and raw with pleasure, he makes small apologetic noises, “shh, i know,” and presses soft, apologetic kisses to your knees.
He helps you pull down your habit, smoothing it over your hips, his touch lingering. The act of dressing feels more intimate than the undressing had. He coaxes your hand and places it over his own chest where the purr still hums low and deep. He twines his tail around your waist and rubs slow, comforting circles into the small of your back.
“I do not deserve…” He trails off, his golden gaze flicking to the altar, to the statue of Mary in the side chapel, to the dark beyond the transepts. “I have called my body monstrous. I have believed the voices that told me so. Then you looked at me as if—” He shakes his head, a smile breaking open his face, beautiful and serene. “As if my claws were not sharp. As if my tail could hold you close. As if my fangs could kiss you without making you less holy.”
“Your body is sacrament to me,” you answer, and his breath stutters in his chest. He brushes hair from your forehead with the back of his hand, the gesture impossibly gentle.
“God keep you, Engel,” he says his voice thick with emotion. He kisses your brow, your mouth, the salt from your cheeks. A laugh boils up in the tenderness and escapes him.
“We are going to be in so much trouble,” he says, giddy like a boy.
“We were already,” you remind, and your grin matches his.
He gathers you in his arms, holding you tight against his chest. “Hold on,” he whispers against your ear, and the world dissolves. There is a sound like tearing silk, a gut-wrenching lurch, and the air is violently displaced by the acrid smell of brimstone and purple smoke.
For a single, disorienting second, you are nowhere and then everywhere, pulled through time and space itself. Then, with a soft BAMF, reality snaps back into focus. You are in his private quarters, a room not of a priest but of a scholar, filled with worn leather-bound books and the faint scent of old paper and him. He sets you down on the cool sheets of a real bed.
You wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him closer, pulling at his clothes insistently. Once you are both naked again, you push him back onto his small bed. You kiss him and hold him, mapping his body with your caresses, from the napped velvet fur on his chest, to the pointed ears that flick when you touch their tips, to the tail that glides like velvet against your skin. You slip into his arms for the second time that night.
When dawn bleeds into the east, he had finally let himself fall asleep with his head pillowed on your naked chest, his tail draped protectively around your thigh, claws uncurled and harmless against your skin.
He snores, a soft rumble with an underlying purr, ridiculous blend of animal and human so endearing you cant help but smile. You stroke one long, pointed ear until it twitches, then you soothe it, and the calm that settles in your chest feels like an answer to a question you never knew how to put into words.
The bells ring for Lauds. Voices stir in the convent, the sisters will rise and wash and pray. You will, too...eventually. You will wash your neck and hide the faint, love-bitten marks as best you can with habit and braid. You will kneel at the choir stall and watch him from across the chancel as he stands to read, collared and calm, his golden eyes bright with a secret only you share.
He wakes with a start, golden eyes wide, and for a heartbeat, pure fear rakes him, almost as if he was afraid it was all another dream and you wouldn't be there. Your hand is already on his cheek, he sees you and softens. “Guten Morgen,” he whispers, a little hoarse.
“Good morning,” you say, your hand resting over his. “Bless me, Father.”
He laughs, then chokes on the sound and captures your lips in a searing kiss. “Gott segne dich,” he says, his voice fierce and full of love.
✦┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦
May your day be full of sin my child, for day 25 is done!! I hope you enjoyed!
Definitely going to hell for this one....all well...may I burn in peace(ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ
Sorry this is late, it ended up getting loooong. I hit 4k words and realized I hadn’t even gotten to the smut yet, so by the time midnight rolled around I was too tired to finish. I saved the rest for today, lol. Not sure if I should count this as two days or try to do the other prompt tonight, we’ll see how the rest of today goes.
Translations for the German (again pls don't come for me lol)
Gott segne dich — God bless you
Guten Morgen — Good morning
Engel — Angel
So, gut. Mein Engel — So good. My angel.
verdammt, entschuldigung — damn, sorry
Heilige Maria, Mutter Gottes, sieh, wie schön sie ist, sieh, wie sie mich annimmt— Holy Mary, Mother of God, look how beautiful she is, look how she accepts me.
ja — yes
Gott — God
Sag mir — Tell me
y/n and Kurt:
…𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝕯𝖆𝖞 ✦✧✦ 𝕹𝖊𝖝𝖙 𝕯𝖆𝖞...
✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦
This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦
