#the blue devil archives

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Solar Eclipse

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 lie 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 laden 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 favorite 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 could 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 shadow-draped softness weighing 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 minuscule 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 have created 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 sing-song, 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 them 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 casualness, “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 is 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 surprisingly keen ear for her age 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 makes it to 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 favorite, what say you?”

He winks and casts off his golden mantle as the dark hallway swallows the 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 the 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 harshly 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.

dividers by @/cursed-carmine

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Nightcrawler headcanons 🌒

because I love my Kurt Wagner scrunkly, bizzare, and downright animalistic

There is now a second part!

He doesn't like using his teleportation abilities without an actual need, and honestly, why would he even bother in the first place? More often than not, the sheer strength of his legs and arms is enough to catch up with almost anything and anyone in a matter of a few powerful leaps. Including you.

The moment he spots you out of the corner of his keen eye — perhaps you decided to take a stroll along the mansion grounds or join the fun of playing ball in the garden — he is quick to race up to you, his feet and hands meeting the earth with rapid, rhythmic thuds. A sight most grotesque, the one that used to throw you off balance back when both of you were young and strange to one another — for how could the body of a man move with the instinct of a wild creature?

Now, however, you've grown so fond of this man-beast that you would recognize the pattern of his steps without fail both mid-battle as he dances around his foes and in your slumber as he creeps closer to your bed. And as he finally runs up to you, powerful legs kicking, thick tail swishing behind, he abruptly stops, then stands up just to give you a low bow and kiss your outstretched hand in a motion of playful gallantry that you seem to enjoy so much.

Kurt's movements are almost never fully human. Even the very posture of his is alien in its curvature: shoulders hunched, as if in waiting to feel the ground with his fingers, and knees bent, as if in waiting to spring into a nearby shadow. And it is those distinctive hands and feet of his that define the manner with which he stays dormant — you've long since come to the conclusion that he just cannot rest his fuzzy ass on a seat (albeit you're sure it's for reasons more psychological than physical in nature).

Yes, some mornings you wake up to a glorious sight of your handsome lover's shadow-embraced frame as the sun roams its hands all over him: coat lustrous with silky sheen, black curls in a halo against the pillow, and the thicket of coarser fur between his thighs barely concealed by your shared blanket. A warm glow would seep through the slits of his sleepy eyes, and his voice would ooze honey and piquant promises as "Liebling" rolls off his devilish tongue — coiling behind your ear, slithering down your neck, nestling in the valley of your breasts and lower, lower still...

But then there are also mornings when you groggily wake up face-to-face with the man you swear (remind yourself) you love with your whole heart perched on the head of your bed like a giant owl.

And speaking of mornings, even a simple act of yawning is a little display of this inhuman side of Kurt's, probably one of the most subconscious ones. Naturally, he's polite enough to stifle it in front of others, to turn his head away, or at the very least to hide it behind his palm. However, it is a gesture born of having decent manners rather than awareness of yet another difference separating him from most of this world. With you, conversely, he's so laid-back, so disarmed, that it's not even a thought in his mind to hide. He, a maestro of stealth, a child of shadows, and a shard of night herself, stands in the center of your universe in all his otherworldly glory — and yawns with his whole mouth wide open.

And as he does so, you note with delight that his tongue curls inward like a cat's every damn time. And every damn time you just have to put your finger there. Thankfully for you, he finds it amusing and uses it as another excuse to tease you and initiate some play, the nature of which will not be discussed here.

And if you thought he was quite bestial at home, Xavier's school being a safe haven for all his quirks and peculiarities, then you haven't seen him in combat, for Nightcrawler will use his misshapen guise as a weapon of choice, along with his swords and fists. When he battles, he's naught but the incarnation of everything people fear might lurk in the darkness: eyes ablaze and bright like two moons, mouth a crooked slash across his face, and claws almost ripping through the cloth of his gloves. His indigo fur, usually a sleek coat of fine, barely there hair, bristles like an angry dog's, and suddenly his cheeks and neck are turned fuzzy and prickly and almost doubled in size. If he could hiss, he would — instead he yowls, and the sheer aberration of this sound, an animal's cry born in a man's throat, is appalling enough to make most humans reconsider walking down the path of crime ever again.

A lot more could be said about Kurt's fur, given that throughout the months and years of dating him, you've discovered all the secrets he hides beneath that deliciously tight suit of his: how the hairs stick together when he sweats and grow just a little fluffier during winter; how fast he sheds when stress hits and just how foamy some places can become after a good workout session in the danger room. Your personal guilty little pleasure? Caressing his naked back with the very tips of your fingers and watching with a childlike excitement as his muscles react to the feather-light touch in a contraction that makes his skin ripple in a wave, shimmering fur standing on end, gathering into folds, and then twich in a bid to shake you off.

He will end up gently swatting your curious hand away with the spade of his tail, but deep down he is more than pleased to have you look at his bizarre self with quiet wonder and smile with glee at every new revelation you make as you read the scripture of his body and soul.

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.

dividers by @/enchanthings

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

More Nightcrawler headcanons 🌒

because I really love my Kurt Wagner scrunkly, bizzare, and downright animalistic

A continuation of this post, but this time a little more techinal and specific. Just some additional thoughts about Kurt's anatomy.

As laid down by nature, Kurt's fur is much more than just a coat of perfectly even indigo hairs growing in the same direction over the whole expanse of his body: it follows specific patterns. His handsome face is covered in such short, sleek fur that from afar it can easily pass as skin, and hardly anyone would have guessed how different the picture is underneath his suit.

Almost every part of his body is somewhat different in that regard: while the fur of his back is the thickest, with a long, prominent ridge running along from the scruff of his neck down to the base of his tail, on the insides of his thighs it turns progressively more sparse the closer you get to his crotch, darker skin peeking through. On his chest and stomach it swirls slightly in a mesmerizing pattern (before trailing down in a coarser, thicker, almost black patch), and on his elbows it bunches up in small tufts.

Oh, and he has the most adorable wisp of hair right between his magnificent pecs, a soft and fluffy little thing. Perfect to twirl idly with your fingers as you rest your head above his heart.

As was mentioned in passing, Kurt's skin is indeed darker than his fur; however, given the rich shade of his coat color, reminiscent of slumbering midnight skies, there is little to no visual mismatch between those rare smoother places and the rest of his furry body. The palms of his hands and the soles of his feet are rough and calloused due to the nature of his gait, and his ears are also quite bare, covered only in an almost human-like peach fuzz. But what perhaps comes as the biggest surprise to some is his tail: the fur of his body doesn't reach it, bunching up at the base in a curious little "bush". The rest of it, up to the very spaded tip, is warm, textured skin that helps him get a firm, secure grip on anything, regardless of material. It feels nice around your wrists, too, it sure does.

You could write an illustrated reference book on Kurt Wagner's body language, and almost eighty percent of it would eventually come down to his tail, an involuntary revelator of his feelings and fears, joys and apprehensions. It's a rare sight to see Kurt, ever the happy-go-lucky devil, go stiff with true discomfort, but when he does, his tail coils like a stricken snake, curling tight around his leg as if he wants his silhouette, his whole presence, to be as minuscule as possible. If his foe is deserving of his full unwavering attention, he will raise his tail in a tight arc above himself, the sharp end aiming at his opponent, akin to a scorpion with its stinger; when he's satisfied and joyful, it wags and writhes in short, lively motions, and should he feel annoyed, it might whip the air a few times with a very prominent swooshing sound.

Now what wouldn't be mentioned in the book is a very special, very interesting dance Kurt's tail seemed to strike up every time he managed to catch you all by yourself and engage you in conversation. He was courting you, that much was evident from the ambiguous curve of his dark lips to the tender squint of the glowing crescents of his eyes, from the viscous honey of his voice, words dipped in it soft yet daring, to the warm air of his personal space that more often than not intermingled with yours. But what captured your attention just as masterfully was the slow, deliberate wave of his tail, a sensual bachata it performed for your eyes only, movements so smooth they looked almost liquid. Was it simply an exhibition of his affection or a subconscious, primordial ritual to allure you? That you may never know for sure. But when you kissed him for the first time, clearly stealing his intention, that tail of his twisted and coiled so wildly you got worried it would end up tied in a knot.

Apart from all the obvious advantages of his strong body, Kurt possesses highly advanced night vision, his eyes as keen as an owl's in total darkness. His hearing is also somewhat sharper than an average human's, but this perk is so insignificant he almost never relies on it. Perhaps if he did his ears could actually move, flattening and perking up in a delightful cat-like manner? What can I say, a girl can dream.

Another thing you would be curious about is his talons. Atop every finger and toe of his sits a wide and thick dark nail, and while Kurt does make sure they are always neat and trimmed, they still stay just a tad longer than what's common with men: he does use them for grabbing and perching after all. They grow with enviable speed and stubbornness, and you know for sure that left unclipped they will eventually turn into large, hooked talons — a deadly weapon that Kurt consciously withholds. Given the nature of your relationship, alongside which comes constant bed sharing, you understand that having twelve sharpened sickles right next to the softness of your body is an unnecessary risk. Yet you can't help but be intrigued to know what it would be like — to see him walk around the mansion, long talons clicking against wooden floors; to test his patience and reap the benefits of your cheekiness when he presses one sharp point right against your quickening pulse... Perhaps one day you will help him realize he's actually very into the idea.

"But what about his teeth?" you may wonder. Oh, his teeth are something you're familiar with rather intimately. Those wonderfully devilish canines that torment you so sweetly, both heart and body, — gleeful in his grins, teasing in his kisses, and downright ravenous in his bites. Kurt is never ruthless with you, but he is perceptive and eager to scratch that itch underneath your skin, the one that begs for his fangs to sink deeper.

To you his teeth are a fascination, to him they are merely tools, and for others they are a threat. He is deliberate in their usage, showing them off to scaredy-cats of enemies, always a great way of saving strength in a battle, but never carrying the same attitude outside missions. That being said, please do ask him to snarl and show some teeth to scare a pestering guy away. He finds it — the very fact that you asked and the poor bastard's reactions he gets out of it — absolutely hilarious, not to say somewhat flattering even. Oh my lady, how he loves being your knight in shining spandex!

Okay, this was the second and final part of Nightcrawler headcanons, thank you for staying with us. I feel like this one is more rushed and reads worse but hey, at least it does get my points across, right?

I do have some more juicy details about his anatomy and at first I wanted to include them here (which would immideately turn this text into an NSFW one) but then I decided I wanted to share such headcanons through my other works, so stay tuned, freaks.

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.

dividers by @/enchanthings

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋

𝖪𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝖶𝖺𝗀𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

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.

dividers by chrisssiren and uzmacchiato

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

X-Men 1992 — Season 4 Episode 8 — "Nightcrawler"

For a while yet the smoke will loom above Neuherzl. It billows high, bitter, speckled with black flakes of holy books’ burnt wisdom — a ragged gray standard fluttering over a besieged citadel. A banner of triumph in a battle lost. By daybreak the fire was no more, and all lives were spared but one, and the fumes of dead, smoldered white wood hung heavy and acrid, undisturbed by hesitant wind.

The monastery lies mauled: bones bared and insides tousled. A vultured carcase, you thought. A great tragedy, he said. And it was indeed, yet it is him you cannot take your watery, smoke-bitten eyes off of. A tragedy no less great — if not greater. Not stone and mortar but flesh and blood in the shape of a man. A dark figure watching the pale sunrise all while ash falls on his head like gentle snow. It is him your heart is bleeding sorrow for, and his face is soft, kind with sadness untainted by wrath.

Murmurs quiver in the decaying air. The monks, faces waxen and hands clasped, are gathered in distressed flocks, drawn together by their shared loss; the villagers are huddled in a grey-brown pack, drawn together by their shared misdeed and guilt alike. Your own stance is embraced by the warmth of Remy's and Anna Marie’s presences as they exchange words that ring meaningless to your ears. Because you cannot stop looking at him, and he stands alone — in-between but not among. Like a lonely shadow with no source. He watches the great slate serpent slither along the sky and blinks to keep its venom out of his eyes. Keep the tears in. Twin suns go out and light up again in rapid bursts. Something underneath your sternum echoes each one with a pang.

The sickly light, choked by the smoke, lies wearily on his fur, and the beautiful shade of rich indigo is turned greenish dull. It’s wrong, almost unsightly. Already you miss the way warm candle flames of the monastery halls caressed his cheeks with orange glow, making shadows dance along the apples of them.

What a foolish misfortune it is to yearn for a man you've only known for a handful of hours.

Rogue rests her palm atop your shoulder, dozens of thousands of kilograms-force light with unworded understanding. You know she’s a witness to the rupture in your gaze still fixed on the slump of his shoulders, and she’s a keen woman, the one who’s familiar with this battle against unbidden affection and with the bittersweet aftertaste of losing it.

"Come on, suga', we did what we could for him."

The instinctive sympathy softens the scratch of her voice, and you almost lean into it, almost let it pull you away. Away from the remains of the monastery and the echoes of human cruelty and the soul that will have to mend its own scattered pieces back together — and towards a frail sunrise spilled over gloomy pines and knee-deep snows of the Alps and great birds of metal that will fly you across the ocean where home awaits its prodigal children.

Your arm brushes the sleeve of Gambit’s coat as you take a step and then another one, and then — and then you stop. Rogue's hand slides down just slightly when you glance back and then lets go helplessly when you turn around. He hasn’t moved, and shadows wrap around him, the only ones to offer him a comforting embrace, and your body moves on its own accord, voice leaping like an awkward frog when you call out for him.

"Herr Wagner!"

He rips his gaze away from the ruins. It intertwines with yours, and suddenly you’re right in front of him again, the luminous gentleness he's looking at you with warming your cheeks. You might be wrong — and Lord strike you down if you are — but just an hour or so ago, back when vicious outcries were yet silenced by the distance and the river of torchflame did not burst its banks, there was something between the two of you, harbored by the velvety gloom of a monastery corner, shared between a quick smile and accidental touch. Something that does not bloom bright and flowery or erupt with a fanfare like the fireworks show on the 4th of July, no. Rather, something that darts swiftly and covertly like a stray cat or bolts past with the deliberate imprecision of a thrown dagger. Something that sings in your veins in a low hum of live wires and yet rings in a clear chime — the soft clatter of his rosary against cobblestone floors as it fell from his weakened fingers to your very feet when you stepped closer.

And just like then, you can smell it now, this tart hint of brimstone under the mask of frankincense and fresh cinders, and just like then, his mellow mouth shapes around a gasp, lower canines sharp behind dark lip, only this time you allow yourself a little more than just a courtesy. It’s a short-lived kind of bravery, a desperate one, but it’s enough for you to take his hand in both of yours, clasping your fingers around his much larger ones. It fits perfectly — of course it does — and you only mourn the concealed warmth of his skin.

That something is stuck to the hilt in your throat, for when you speak it is with breath seeping through words like blood through teeth.

“Come with us," you implore, swallowing the improper selfishness of the unspoken me. “It’s too much to ask, I know, but you will be with friends. With those who understand. Come with us, Herr Wagner, and you will belong, I promise."

For the eternity of a moment, you fear he will pull away. Wince with heartbreaking condescension. Pat you on the shoulder in a priestly way, as if he stands above worldly affairs and delusions of a lonely mind. But then he smiles, a fleck of shadow dipping into his cheek, and it’s kind; he rests his other hand on top of yours, fingers tightening ever so cautiously, and it’s a caress he cannot give, a promise he cannot keep. When he speaks, his voice is softer than a rustle of the gospel pages in the wind.

“The most generous offer, meine schöne Taube, the kindest, but I must stay here." He glances back at the scorched earth, and you fight the urge to wipe ash off his chin. “The people of Neuherzl have seen the error of their ways, and I cannot turn my back on my brothers in their time of need.

To belong is to be at peace with one’s self. God gave me such peace, and thus I belong with Him. I will be praying that your righteous goal helps you find it just as well."

Oh.

His knowing eyes seem to lighten the deepest crannies of your soul, yet you still hope like a silly little girl that he won’t catch a glimpse of misery fogging your gaze as you cast it downwards, where his hands are joined with yours, large thumbs sliding across knuckles. A touch you cannot feel with skin through the thickness of the gloves, but one that makes the very surface of your soul ripple.

“I see."

How you hate the tightness of your throat that makes you sound so pathetic, so utterly lost in a man — or rather a concept of him. A man you don’t even dare call by his first name lest a line be crossed too soon, yet it’s too late to downplay the desperation of your plea, and some unreasonable part of you is glad of it. The others are simply mortified.

You feel your arms weaken, as if the pull of the earth’s core has suddenly grown stronger, but he doesn’t let you slip away. His tail is all warm skin and gentle force under your chin as he tilts your head up, and the crinkle of his mesmerizing eyes is a treat the kind of which you’ve never tried before. Fondness, your heart cries. Sweet like honey and heady like bubbly wine.

“I cannot come with you, aber I shall write. I do believe you and your friends would want to know how the restoration of the monastery is going, no?”

The sun has peeked from above the paling of firs and pines, and the pinkish gold of its nimbus melts into the air. Dusts the beautiful indigo and makes the shadows sway in a gentle waltz. You steal a glance at Anna Marie’s face but cannot linger on it for too long. Your ears feel hot like fresh embers. 

“Yes, of course, I— we would love that, Herr Wagner."

And before you part, the fragrance of myrrh a secret keepsake, you cannot hold back the question even if you already anticipate the answer to come. “Will I ever see you again?”

Two dawns glow in his eyes, more beautiful than you’ve ever seen in the skies, and for a moment you think you can feel the same peace embracing your very existence with a great hand of divine mercy.

“There is always hope for those who believe." He smiles as he watches you go. “After all, God does work in such mysterious ways."

Just a weird little thing written as practise of sorts after rewatching the episode. Consider it a warm-up before I return to bigger texts. I'm still learning to let myself breathe when writing and editing and to not be too harsh with the final result, and I think I'm doing better already.

While '92 Nightcrawler is not my favourite and I do believe he's way too shallow and one-dimensional, I still did enjoy how soft spoken, wise, and almost melancholic he is. Thus I thought I had to write something for him since in the end of the day it's still my man <3

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.

P.S. And yes, the omission of Kurt's name was intentional.

divider by @/chrisssiren