Can't say I agree at all. Hypersexuality is a condition that actually disrupts a person's daily life. It's about having compulsive sexual urges that need to be satiated right this moment, like an addiction. Hypersexuality becomes unmanageable, not to mention it causes distress, and it's a problem that needs to be treated like any other mental disorder.
Absolutely nothing in Kurt's character suggests that he's addicted to sex. He's sex-positive, sure, and perhaps one could say he has a high libido, but it's not the same as being hypersexual. While I do believe you can headcanon practically anything you want and view a character however you like, it's also important to understand that such an interpretation may be biased.
Kurt gives peak after-the-act cuddles and I refuse to believe otherwise. Man's all sweet words and soft kisses and is probably still touching you all over to show he loves you.
.... okay and maybe to try and see if he can rile you up for a round two if he hasn't drained your stamina lol
He gives both peak after-the-act cuddles and during-the-act cuddles if you ever need them. Sometimes innocent enough cuddles is what gets you two into the act in the first place, because with Kurt Wagner the line gets as blurred and thin as you allow it.
He is sure to get handsy post-coitus, but he does so in a manner that doesn't imply anything if you're not in the mood. He won't just grab your ass or squeeze your breast — but slide the very tip of his tail along the back of your thigh or caress your waist with his thumb. Gentle little teases that may rekindle your interest just as easily as they may lull it to sleep, and he'll be fine with either.
Besides, cuddling with him gives you as much opportunity to touch him too, and Kurt loves being touched. Feeling your nails gently rake down his chest, watching your fingers disturb his fur and make it shimmer under the dimmed light — it seizes his heart with an ache he's yet to tell you about. Sex is intimate, but this is vulnerability in the same manner metal becomes malleable after being heated. Kurt is used to letting his appreciation be known, and he's nothing if not excellent at making you feel desired, admired, loved. Yet having you caress his features and look at them — at this dichotomy of handsome and repelling — with such unmasked tenderness almost makes him feel caught off guard. Him, the ever-confident lady-killer Nightcrawler! Oh, the things you are doing to him. You've no idea.
I thought abt this while writing down a scene , but aftercare with Kurt kinda HAS to involve a bath of some kind bc the combined will will be all in his fur on his stomach/pelvis 😭 esp if the partner is exceptionally wet
That's a thought that visited me too at some point. He either has to be super careful and precise with his "landing", or it's straight to the showers for him. Otherwise he will spend much more time in the bathroom the next day trying to untangle that dried-up mess on his stomach. Yikes.
So yeah, he'd hate getting his own come on his body — but your wetness? That's a whole different story. If you can soak his fur to the point it gets a shade or two darker, Kurt will moan at the sight. Just a little. And then he'll wear it like a trophy for all those short, sweet minutes before he eventually has to wash it off. Such a pity, really.
Most of the journey, which ended up lasting all day, took place in the woods. On your horses, you rode along the path trodden by travelers before you, stopping only for a rest around noon to let the animals rest. Every attempt you made to engage the maid in conversation to pass the time was met with silence, a silence that wasn't due to shyness but rather to a sort of contempt, as if being there with you was forced. You were almost out of the woods when you passed a stream and decided to stop to freshen up. You barely had time to remove your dress to shake it and wipe the dust off when you felt the cold of a blade touch your throat. "Now you will do everything I tell you, or you will be in trouble, understand?" The venom in the maid's voice was enough to tell you how serious she was about her intentions, and you simply nodded.
I need to make out with Kurt Wagner crazy style. Tongues out, gulping down saliva like mad dogs, breaths hot against each other's faces, and moans so loud they quiver, caught between our mouths, almost a palpable thing begging to be bitten. I need his teeth clanking against mine, catching on my lower lip; need the fur on his neck ruffled, hairs standing on end as if electrified by the sheer passion buzzing under his skin; need his hands under my shirt, nails scraping along the underside of my breasts, while my knee presses into his heavy, leaking cock — and I need it now.
summary. being a hero to the whole world has never been easy, but being one to your own family is even less so.
word count. ~3k
content warnings. implied past pregnancy and birth
author's notes. I love em dashes
ao3 link
You wake with the underlying feeling that something is not right. It’s a sudden shift, a stumble of your lulled consciousness, and it only takes a second and maybe a half — one moment you’re still asleep and the next you aren’t. The gaudy nothingness of your dream fades without a trace like a morning mist, and when, with a single blink, you gain awareness, everything in your core feels caught in a web of strange unease. Something’s changed.
It’s dark, darker than one short shut-eye ago. The walls of the small living room are adorned with shadows like dark festive garlands, and only the distant pale glow of the city seeps through the uncurtained windows in a meek flow. The air feels motionless, the quiet disorienting. Has the sun set already? How long have you been asleep? And why are your arms—
—so empty?
You jerk so violently you feel something warm stretch in your neck muscles, and the couch screeches with old springs underneath. Immediately something clawed grips at your airways and squeezes them with cruel fingers. Where is she? It all comes back to you: the weight of her in your arms, the tug of her teething gums on your nipple, the supple softness of the couch cushion as it molded itself perfectly around the exhaustion in your bones... Yes, you were feeding her and must have dozed off — just for a quarter of an hour or so, right? — but now you are alone.
Panic shoots through the tangle of half-formed thoughts, and before your mind has a chance to catch up, your body has already hurled itself into motion. You spring up from the couch, feet almost getting caught in the fallen blanket, and there is only one notion, a single, terrible conviction that seizes your whole being. Someone took her.
You try to call out her name, but it burns down in the furnace of your chest, leaving only a bundle of choked syllables. The silence of the dark hallway echoes back with the thuds of your own heartbeat — and not a single cry to guide you. With frenzied persistence you stumble through the apartment, suddenly as foreign as the labyrinths of a gloomy jungle, until at last you reach the door to your bedroom — and see it cracked open. A strip of light squeezes through the tangle of shadows, and your insides turn frosty. The night lamp. You never leave it on.
Someone’s in there. You feel the air shift around their presence and hear the rustle of their feet along the carpet. With stiff fingers you grab the door handle; the metal is cold against your feverish skin, grounding, encouraging. Your grasp tightens, ready to yank the door open, stealthiness be damned — but then you stop.
“Weißt du, wie viel Kinder frühe
stehn aus ihren Bettlein auf…”
Softly, like a whisper of fine summer rain, the voice of your husband floats through the room. It dips and rises — a tremble in his breath, a murmur dripping from his lips — and weaves its gentle song. You feel it settle over your shoulders like the warmth of a cotton quilt, and you cannot hold back the shiver that finally releases the tension from your limbs. Moisture gathers on the door handle, right under your palm.
She’s safe. Of course she is. And you are such a fool.
Relief floods in, carrying the faint smell of brimstone and flames long burnt out — of your heart finally setting in its place. Carefully, you push the door wider and wince when the tiniest of creaks plunges itself into the flow of Kurt’s voice like a splinter. His tail twitches — a momentary acknowledgement — but he doesn’t turn to greet you, all his attention devoted to the small figure resting in his arms.
“...dass sie ohne Sorg und Mühe
fröhlich sind im Tageslauf?”
Notes hang in the air tinkling like crystal morning stars, and you feel almost hesitant to enter your own bedroom. Shadows and light shift on Kurt’s frame, swaying back and forth across his shirt as he rocks her slowly, but the lines of his body are taut, the slope of his shoulders too flat as if the tension pulls them higher by the string. And as you step along the carpet, heel to toe, to stop right beside him — your lover, your husband, the father of your child — you know at once that it’s not exhaustion that weighs the timbre of his voice down. Under the veil of shadows, his eyes glimmer like two dimmed windows.
“Gott im Himmel hat an allen
seine Lust, sein Wohlgefallen,
kennt auch dich und hat dich lieb.”
The little one only snores quietly, all three tiny fingers clasped around one of his, and the sight cradles your heart in warmth. From the tips of her pointy ears down to her grabby little toes, she is his daughter through and through — if only bearing a softer shade to her fur, blue blushed with the peachiness of the sunset-blooming sky. The tail that usually sticks out like a proud little flag rests curled at her feet, short and chubby like a kitten’s, but you know it has already grown longer and weightier than it was a mere month ago. She’s growing fast — faster than any of you were ready for — and by the way melancholy deepens the lines of Kurt’s smile, you feel he’s thinking the same thing.
A sigh flutters between his lips, outlines the last words (“Kennt auch dich und hat dich lieb”), and then he falls silent for a moment. Not to put her into the crib, no, he doesn’t hasten to do so, but to simply watch her. His daughter, his creation, your love for him taken form, whittled in every little feature that resembles his own so intimately, and when he tilts his head to you, his gaze holds the warmth of a thousand suns, but the squint of his eyes is shaped weary by an unspoken rumination.
“I’m sorry, Liebling, you were asleep, and she started to get fussy. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
You shift awkwardly, embarrassment prickling at the back of your neck. Kurt must have heard your anxious walking, no doubt thudding with footsteps in the hushedness of the apartment, and sensed your distress from behind the door. How foolish.
“I probably just dreamt of something,” you chuckle bashfully. “Didn’t think you’d be home already. Was the mission okay?”
Kurt’s mouth tightens ever so slightly as he chews on his words, and you don’t miss that.
“Yeah,” he settles on then. “Yeah, it was.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Instead he leans in to her chubby, sleep-mellowed face, presses his lips against her forehead, and buries his nose in the wisps of her curls — already a perfect little replica of his own in their tangled disarray — to inhale the smell you know he’s been missing for weeks. Milk and baby powder. Oatmeal-honey soap and the sweet, earthy fragrance of her fur. The scent of life he wasn’t a part of.
Quietly you watch his face contort with something you two will no doubt talk about, a feeling he’s brought home from across the ocean, and as he slowly lays her in the crib, finger sliding from her grasp, your hands slide around his arm, and for the first time in weeks you feel his warmth against your skin. Oh, how you’ve missed it, God above, you have.
For a minute more neither of you speaks. Outside, the world hums faintly, life rushing along the streets and highways like blood through vessels in streams of senseless sounds. Joyful, empty songs from an open window bleed into a high-pitched laughter downstairs and it in turn shatters against the shrill howl of a police siren. A shapeless noise of human destinies merging into a single chaotic pulse. And yet she sleeps — serene and carefree, safe and loved, none the wiser about the tremble that skews her father’s brows or the dead weight of his tail lying on the floor or the involuntary strength of his grip on the wood rails.
“It’s not right.” Kurt murmurs at last, and the edges of his profile are sharp, shadows eating away at the golden glow of the night lamp. “It’s not right that you’re so unused to having me around that you'd rather expect a malefactor in our home before me.”
There is no accusation in his tone — only an ash of sorrow, a bitter helplessness that dulls the jovial chime of his voice, and for a phantom moment he stands before you not as a man who’s found his way back from the other side of life, not as a hero who’s clashed swords with gods, but as a boy who had to learn he couldn’t be there for everyone to save. You remember telling him so all those years ago, on the roof of Xavier’s Institute under the pale, predawn sky. You remember how tiny your voice felt, how painfully squeezed out by your own throat, and how his hand clutched yours in a desperate search for something constant, grounding, alive. Not escaping his grasp, not turning cold in it, not leaving behind the stains you knew he always chose to wash off himself. Your words didn’t sink in fully that day, merely disturbed the surface, but you were there for him and you were patient, and that was enough.
“Is this what you’ve been telling yourself? That you’re a stranger?”
“I might as well become one.” He huffs a chuckle but it’s humorless, dry, and scratchy like a thorn caught between his teeth. “She rolled on her own and I missed it because I wasn’t there.”
Oh, bless your darling and his poor, feeling heart. Days ago, on a whim, your daughter decided she'd had enough of staring at the ceiling, so she rolled onto her belly in the playpen while you were busy untangling the laundry from the basket. You even took the photo just like that — with a sock still clutched in one hand. You were so giddy when you sent it to him and even giddier when, hours later, he finally saw it. His reply was short, but you could never hold it against him: you knew that pride stayed with him through the rest of the mission. If only you could foresee it would cut both ways.
Gently you pry Kurt’s fist apart to cradle his hand against your chest.
“My love, such things are so short-lived and happen so suddenly. I could have missed it too, and many parents do. Don't burden yourself with guilt.”
The moment the words leave your mouth, you feel them freeze in the air, hanging heavy and ringing hollow. You hear a rustle — his tail moves, dragging against the carpet, and winds itself tight around his leg.
“When she just entered this world, I looked at her and thought: how can such a tiny thing already be so opinionated and quite loud about it too?” His lips twitch, touched by that thoughtful fondness with which people reminisce about the melody of their mother’s lullaby or the song that played the day they found their true love, or the first cry of their newborn. And you know he hasn't forgotten that sound any more than you have.
“And after that I made a promise that I will always be there for her. For her first laughter and first steps and the very first bruised knee. And yet I missed it.”
Pity pulls at your heart. You try to say something, anything, but Kurt seizes the short breath between you.
“I know what you’re going to say. That it was one small milestone in the road of her life, wasn’t it?” At your silence, he nods slightly to himself. “Perhaps it was, but every milestone that seems so little to us is a huge breakthrough for her, one that she makes on her own. All I had to do was be there, and I couldn’t.”
His voice breaks in the middle, jumps, and drops down with the fracture, and the rugged tear of it is so sheer in the quiet of the room, that you flinch and the little one frowns with a grunt, tail flopping against the mattress as if calling for order. You both wait with bated breath, but almost instantly her face smooths out — she squirms a little, rustling her curls on the bedsheet, turns her head to the other side, breathes out in a short purr, and then stills again. Kurt’s hand slips out from your grasp and finds its way back to the rail of the crib.
“I’ve been thinking about it for days. And I’m scared, Liebe.”
At last he turns to you, and when, in a familiar bid of weakness, you lean in to press your lips against his, they are twisted with dejection and guilt, yet your affection opens them up just enough for him to feel the warmth of your mouth. You kiss him and then you pull back, and he lets out a sigh of a titan holding the firmament on his shoulders.
“You know I’m scared this world will hurt her just like it has hurt us. Humans with malice in their hearts, sworn foes that come back stronger and more spiteful time after time, conquerors from the other side of the Milky Way or demons from dimensions we cannot even begin to comprehend... So many forces might take her away from me, and I’ve been chasing after them for all these months, but— but now I’m afraid it is me they are taking away from her.”
Wrapped in the earnest anguish of his voice, you recognize your own chewed-up thoughts, ones that’ve been stirring up your mind during endless daylight hours and quiet fatigued nights. Five months have passed, and through them all, only one thing has held unwavering like a silver thread: your silent acceptance. Your husband is a hero, and you would never strip him of this place he fought for long before he ever called you his. It hasn't grown easier to see him leave, nor any less painful to wonder if he secretly regretted his vows — but you always knew the price you would have to pay for loving a man whose heart was more noble than the world deserved.
It hurt, of course it did, and immensely so, but being a mother has changed the shape of this hurt into something slim enough to stash away for later. Perhaps, you muse, for this particular moment of time.
Kurt looks into your eyes in search of understanding, and you let him find it — and so much more. And when his lower lip curls up, a smear of shadow on his chin trembling ever so slightly, you know he sees you now, for the first time in months he does. No words are uttered, but you two were always fabulously good at reading each other’s minds without the need for telepathic aptitude. After all, why else would marry this man?
“I’ve been such a fool, haven’t I?” He mutters, and the admission opens something in your soul that has been sealed shut, like a valve that almost burst under pressure.
Yes, you have. You shake your head.
“You’ve been a hero. And a good one at that.”
“Just not as good a husband and father.” Kurt sighs again, and as the tension leaves him with a soft, hissing exhale, his shoulders droop — and at last he doesn't look like a statue of himself carved out of stone any longer. “I cannot believe I was so… unfeeling, so blind. Not noticing this cross of pain and exhaustion you’ve been carrying in silence, all by yourself. Why? Why not tell me, dear heart? Why not make this misery be known?”
“Because our universe needs you, Kurt.”
“And you don’t?”
You open your mouth but your voice doesn’t shape itself around any of the scattered thoughts. What are you supposed to say to that? That you needed him, desperately, overwhelmingly so, but was too hesitant to admit it, too scared to hear his answer? At what point, you can’t help but think, did you grow so scared of your own better half? Was such defeated acquiescence born together with the little one or did it grow bigger alongside her like an unwanted nestling?
The urge to cry rolls over, sudden like a storm wave. Even if you had anything to say you cannot anymore — a lump too big for your throat squeezes the vocal cords and renders you numb. You fight the urge to sob, and it’s a battle you’ve won so many times over these long months, but when Kurt pulls you into himself and you drown in the dear scent of fur warmed under cotton, something small and wounded quivers at the root of your mouth. His chest rumbles under your cheek.
“You speak of the universe, but Liebling, you are my universe. And she?” You feel his muscles shift when he glances at the crib. “She is the brightest little star in it. This is what I should protect, this is where my duty lies. The world has many heroes to keep it safe, but she only has one father. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for taking so long to realize such a simple truth.”
For several long, quiet minutes he holds you close — cradling your weary head with the same protective tenderness he cradled his daughter, and through the wet hiccuped sniffles you hear him croon the lullaby anew, words interlacing into constellations. They gleam under your eyelids, young, unfamiliar, and yet untraced, but bearing a promise that when you wake up again, he will still be there.
“Weißt du, wie viel Sternlein stehen
an dem blauen Himmelszelt?”
This text was somewhat inspired by Scott and Madeline's story in Uncanny X-Men and X-Factor. It all might read silly and even kinda senseless — I know it does to me — but still I decided to push this topic and see what comes out of it. If I'm being fully honest, it is difficult for me to imagine Kurt having kids and being the keeper of the hearth in the usual sense, so I wanted to challenge the whole "Kurt would be an amazing husband/dad from the get-go" formula, but do so lightly, in a gentle way.
As per usual, 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.
there is a criminal lack of submissive nightcrawler on this site and in general (at least outside of mlm ships including him) so my down bad ass has to make my own goddamn food
this does not have proper fic structure but i kind of just needed to get this out of my system so anyways,
gn!reader x sub nightcrawler
contains: overstimulation, mild dacryphilia, reader and kurt are implied to be switches, no mention of reader’s genitals, might be a little ooc sorry 😓
(some of this was also inspired by a nightcrawler nsfw audio i stumbled on…)
kurt is a giver, everyone knows this; he wants nothing more than to take care of the ones he loves and doesnt expect anything in return (whether its because he’s used to his generosity being taken advantage of or the act of giving itself is all he needs) but i dont think that doesnt mean he wouldnt absolutely love being on the receiving end
i think at first when the roles change he takes it as him giving to you in a different way instead of you focusing on him but he doesnt object when you explain what you want
yeah, sure, at first he’ll whine “please, let me be in service of you as well,” when you start pleasuring him (whether its with your hands or mouth) but it doesnt last
you’ll murmur something like “you do so much for me already, let me take care of you,” in a way he hasn’t heard you speak before and he melts, losing any willpower to fight back (not that he’d want to)
its new to him, its different, and i don’t think he’s expecting to like it as much as he does, but he won’t complain, kurt is gracious like that
he can’t focus on anything but you and the pleasure you’re giving him, the way your touch makes his fur bristle and heat flush across his skin underneath, the way his own inhibitions start to crumble and his composure is lost to the wind
he also gets really loud.
he’s already pretty noisy but when he’s the dominant its mostly just soft moans and whispers of german pillow talk directly into your ears, for your ears only,
but now?
now, he’s damn near crying out your name between german expletives and pleas, so overwhelmed it hurts but in all the good ways
his back arches up off of the bed, his eyes will shut tight, and his hips will buck upward without any controlled rhythm, just chasing more, please, more, anything, “i need it, i need you,”
before he can warn you he’s spilling over with an abrupt shout, tears gathering on his lashes, tail going rigid against the bed before twitching with the rest of his body-wide aftershocks
and then you don’t stop.
his eyes shoot open, and when he tries to speak the only noise he can make is a surprised moan that crescendos into a sob of ecstasy, squirming for a few seconds before going completely limp and throwing his head back into the pillows, curls sticking to his forehead from sweat, staggered gasps and choked-off cries filling the room
normally you go multiple rounds because he has the stamina for it, but his reaction’s so intense you’ll ask “should i stop?” to which he answers with a shake of his head, his hands reaching up to grab onto you for support (if he wasn’t already clinging onto you like he usually does)
“<give me more,>” he’ll plead, in a voice that’s already starting to go raw from overuse, reverting to his native language because his mind is completely blank at this point
“<i can take it>”
so you do, you give him more and you don’t let up,
because who can refuse when he’s so goddamn pretty when he’s wrecked to the point of tears?
when he’s truly spent all he has, when you’ve decided you’ve tortured him enough, he’ll lie breathless against the mattress, chest heaving as he gathers his bearings
even in that dazed state he won’t let you leave his side though
you try to get up to grab a washcloth, some water, or anything, and he’ll whimper, his tail wrapping around your wrist and weakly tugging you back
he’ll look at you through glassy, half-lidded eyes, not saying a word but you already know he just wants you to stay for a little bit longer
so you do, you curl up next to him, pull him into your arms, run your fingers through his hair and whisper praises of how well he did, how much you enjoyed yourself
and he’ll manage an exhausted smile into your neck, an involuntary purr rumbling in his throat and chest
i really do think he’s willing to do whatever you ask of him on the condition that afterwards he’s allowed to latch onto you and hold you close
there really is nowhere else he’d rather be than perfectly nestled in your arms
…you’re definitely going to have to wrestle him off if you want to not fall asleep all sweaty and sticky though, he couldn’t care less with how tired out you made him
