Kurt Wagner who is not abashed, not even one bit, of being nude around you.
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 itâs 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 youâd 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 â a man basking in the sunâs 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 wouldnât be, when the dishevelment of his fur draws a map of your night rendezvous?
Shoulder blades splay like wings â 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 â 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 itâs 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.Â
Tufts of clumped hair â held together by the remnants of your joined pleasure â 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.
âAh, guten Morgen, DornrĂśschenâ, Kurtâs 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 â 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 Kurtâs gaze is almost as tangibly hot on your bared breasts as the fondle of the sunâs hand. His breath doesnât quite catch, but the flexion of his tail betrays the interest just as plainly. An involuntary little flick up and down â a mental caress born of muscle memory. The shadows swirling between his thighs canât hide the faint twitch, and you canât shoo away the smugness from your grin. Two can play at that game.
âGuten Morgen auch dir, Prinz Charmingâ, 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 â or rather in the atrium â of New York city has never felt more like home, this welcomed unearthliness slotting into its dull mundanity like a missing puzzle piece.Â
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, âI believe we gave your neighbors quite a headache last evening, Schatziâ.
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 elseâs misfortune Kurt was an amazing lover.
âWe did, yet it is I who will have to apologize to poor Mrs. Tuffin. Again.â
Kurt only chuckles at that â 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 doesnât reach, and you call for him in hesitation as well as acceptance.
âYou could always come with me, you know. She bakes great wafersâ.
Kurt stops momentarily and something smolders in his gaze.
âIâm sure Iâm missing out on the fun, Liebling, but you know I canâtâ, he lingers for another second and offers like a consolation, âI can make breakfast, though. Your favourite, what say you?â
He winks and casts off his golden mantle as the dark hallway swallows the indigo outline of his body and you swallow your disappointment.Â
He may not stay as long as youâd want â he barely ever does â 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 â not this one, perhaps not even the next, but some evening â 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 wonât 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 youâd 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
