Dan Heng's Beloved

Where It All Began

Genosha wasn't just a place on the map. It was a promise made of concrete and hope, erected in the turbulent waters of the Indian Ocean. For Kurt, the Nightcrawler, the blue demon with golden eyes and a pious soul, that island had been the first home where no one screamed at the sight of him.

He remembered the day Professor Xavier found him. A circus tent in Bavaria, where he was the "main freak," the creature people paid to see and feared at nightfall. Charles Xavier saw beyond the dark blue skin, beyond the barbed tail and the yellow eyes that glowed in the dark. He saw a boy praying in German every night, asking God to make him normal.

Kurt used to say that Charles gave him more than opportunity. He gave Kurt dignity.

Years passed. The X-Men became his family. Jean, Scott, Ororo, Logan, and especially Rogue, who hugged him one day and said, "Welcome to the club of weirdos, brother." But it was in Genosha that Kurt found something that not even Xavier could have given him.

True love.

Two years after Genosha's official establishment as a mutant nation, Kurt had already settled there. The island breathed freedom. Mutants with scales, with claws, with eyes in unexpected places walked the streets without needing disguises. Children played in the central park using their powers openly, and no one called the police.

It was in the capital's botanical garden that Kurt saw her for the first time in fifteen years.

She was crouched among the blue lotus flowers, her enormous wings spread like a cloak of light. When the sunlight hit them, they reflected impossible colors, liquid rainbows that danced over the petals and her light brown hair. Kurt froze.

"Yn?" the word escaped his lips before he could think.

She looked up. The same eyes he remembered from the corridors of the X-Mansion, when they were both frightened teenagers trying to find their place in the world. She stared at him for a long moment, and then her wings closed as if to embrace her.

"Kurt?" Her voice was exactly as he remembered it. Soft as a breeze. "Kurt Wagner?"

He teleported away before he could even answer. He appeared two meters away from her, with his characteristic smell of sulfur and ozone, and then simply stopped. What do you say to someone you've lost contact with for so long?

"You are…" she began.

"Blue as always" he finished, with a wry smile.

"I was going to say more furry" he laughed.

"Are you… flying?"

"As always" she replied.

She laughed. The sound calmed something inside him that he didn't even know was hurting.

"I'm planting flowers, actually. The wings are just for show."

She had been rescued by Xavier a year after Kurt. A girl from the countryside, kicked out of her home when her wings sprouted from her back at age twelve. He remembered her as a silent shadow in the mansion's gardens, someone who understood what it was to be different in a way that even the other mutants didn't fully comprehend.

They were never close in adolescence. Just two wounded birds in the same cage, recognizing each other's pain without having the courage to touch it. She left the X-Mansion a few years later, and Kurt heard that she had traveled the world, using her light manipulation abilities to create art wherever she went.

Now, in Genosha, her wings shimmered in the afternoon sun, and Kurt found himself unable to look away.

"Would you like to help with the flowers?" she asked, tilting her head. His tail moved uncontrollably, like a dog wagging its tail.

"Of course."

He didn't know gardening. But he learned quickly, pushing the soil with his three-jointed fingers while she explained about soil pH and lunar cycles. They talked about everything and nothing. About the X-Men, about Genosha, about lost time. When the sun set, Kurt sat beside her, his white and colorful wings reflecting the last lights of twilight.

"Why did you come to Genosha?" he asked.

She looked at the horizon. The sea shimmered like molten glass.

"For the same reason as you" she turned her face to him. "To finally stop hiding myself."

Kurt felt something stir in his chest. Something he had locked away long ago, convinced it wasn't for him. Love. The possibility of being loved not despite his appearance, but including it.

The wedding was small and perfect. Held in the same garden where they had reunited, under a canopy of light she herself had created: a solid rainbow that floated above their heads like a dream ceiling. Rogue was the maid of honor, crying so copiously that Gambit had to lend her his handkerchief three times. Professor Xavier blessed them via video, unable to travel, but with tears in his eyes. Logan delivered the rings, and don't tell anyone, but he was crying.

"I'm proud, blue" he said, handing over the rings.

The honeymoon was short; Genosha needed them, and they needed Genosha. She became a teacher at the Mutant Academy, teaching art and literature to young people who, like her one day, needed to see beauty in a world that called them monsters. Kurt joined the Security Council, but spent as much time at the school as she did, often appearing upside down in classrooms just to make the children laugh.

The children laughed. They loved him. To them, Kurt wasn't a demon. He was just Mr. Wagner, who had a cool tail and could disappear and reappear anywhere, and who always carried German sweets in his pocket.

"Miss Wagner? May I speak with you for a minute?" Oliver, just eleven years old, with his large, gray eyes and a worried expression, interrupted the class on a cloudy afternoon. She knew that when Oliver had that expression, it was because he had seen something.

Not in the literal sense; Oliver was born blind, but with the beautiful ability to see what would happen in the future.

"Of course, dear." She closed the book she was teaching and leaned over her desk. Her wings gently closed behind her, an automatic gesture in tight spaces. "What is it?"

Oliver bit his lower lip, a habit he had when he was nervous.

"This morning, I had a vision. A very strong one. I usually don't tell because things can change, but…" he hesitated. "This one was different. It was very clear."

She sat up straighter, worried. Clear visions of Oliver usually meant something important was about to happen.

"What did you see?"

"I saw you… and Mr. Wagner. You were… " he blushed slightly "in a room with babies. Two babies. And you were happy. Very happy."

She blinked. Then laughed, loudly and genuinely.

"Oliver, darling, you're very creative, but that's not a vision. It could have been a dream… Like those with dinosaurs you had."

The boy shook his head firmly.

"It wasn't a dream. It was a vision. And come here…" - he vaguely pointed to her belly. "The babies are there. Now."

Her smile froze. She looked at her own belly, under her clothes. Impossible. She and Kurt were careful.

Not that they didn't want children, they talked about it sometimes, with that timid hope that couples have when the subject seems too distant to be real. But now? Already?

"Oliver, I appreciate your concern, but…"

"I know what I saw, Miss." The boy was already walking away, his expression determined. "Congratulations"

And he left, leaving her alone with her heart beating faster than normal.

She tried to forget the conversation.

She really tried. But during dinner, a stew that Kurt had learned to make with Rogue, served with crusty bread and red wine (which, because of Oliver's words, she couldn't drink).

"Kurt?" she said, playing with the food on her plate.

"Meine Liebe?" he raised his golden eyes, his tail moving curiously behind him. Kurt always knew when something was wrong.

"Oliver came to talk to me today…"

Kurt's eyebrows rose. He already knew Oliver; his premonitions were either always accurate or childish imagination.

"What did he say?" he asked with a slightly worried tone.

"That I'm pregnant. " she said, after putting her fork down.

Silence.

The most absolute silence she had ever experienced in her entire life. The wind whistled outside, and in their apartment, nothing moved. Kurt remained completely still, his yellow eyes fixed on her.

"What?" the word came out in a whisper.

"He said he saw us in a vision. Where we were in a baby's room AND…" she hesitated, feeling ridiculous. "The baby is in my belly now."

Kurt didn't answer with words.

He simply disappeared in a cloud of sulphurous smoke, leaving her alone with a plate of stew and a sudden, overwhelming feeling of panic.

"Kurt? Kurt!"

There was no answer. The apartment was empty.

Thirty seconds later, the longest time of her life, Kurt reappeared in the middle of the dining room, panting, carrying three enormous plastic bags. They overflowed with boxes of all colors and brands.

"Kurt Wagner, where did you go?!"

"To three pharmacies," he said, throwing the bags on the table. His hands were visibly trembling. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I brought all the ones I could find… We need to be sure."

"Kurt…" she didn't know what to say, she just picked up the bags and went to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, the bathroom was lined with empty boxes. Seven pregnancy tests in total, three different brands: two digital, two strip tests, three plastic ones, and one that Kurt had mistakenly picked up in the vitamin section and which was actually for testing the pH of water.

The first test showed two lines.

They held their breath.

The second showed a plus sign.

The third, digital, flashed "PREGNANT" in capital letters.

When the seventh test confirmed what the other eight had already said, she felt her knees buckle. Kurt caught her before she fell, his strong, furry arms enveloping her completely. He pulled her close, his face buried in her hair, and she felt his heart pounding like a bird's against her chest.

"We're going to have a baby…" he murmured, his voice choked. "We, liebe. You and me. A baby."

She laughed, but the laughter was wet, accompanied by tears streaming down her face.

"Kurt…"

He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes, and she saw that he was crying too. The blue demon, the Nightcrawler, the man who had faced apocalypses and armies alone, had tear-filled eyes.

"I never thought this would be possible…" he whispered. "Not for me. Not with someone like me."

"Someone like you?" She touched his face, her fingers tracing the contour of his unusual jawline. "Kurt Wagner, you're the most beautiful person I've ever met. Inside and out."

He kissed her. It was a deep, lingering kiss, full of years of insecurity finally dissolving like salt in water.

And then she remembered.

"Kurt."

"Hmm?" He was still kissing her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose.

"There's one more thing."

He stopped.

"What?"

She swallowed hard.

"When Oliver said I was pregnant… He said 'babies.' Plural."

Kurt's face went through a complete cycle of expressions in three seconds: shock, disbelief, shock again, a spark of joy, shock a third time.

"Plural?"

"Plural."

Kurt fell to his knees.

Literally fell, as if his legs had turned to water. She looked down and saw him kneeling before her, his hands outstretched as if in adoration, his eyes wide. His tail curled lovingly around her calves, squeezing like an extra hug.

"Babies," he repeated, as if testing the word. His whiskers trembled. "Multiple babies. Two children. Maybe three. Maybe "—Let's pray it's just two," she laughed, running her hand through his dark hair. "Please. I can barely carry my own wings anymore."

Kurt lifted his face to her, and his smile, that beautiful, wide smile that lit up his whole face, was the most radiant thing she had ever seen.

"Two babies," he agreed. "For now. But if it's three, I'll build a bigger room myself. If it's four, I'll build a new house. If it's five"

"Kurt!"

"I'm shutting up."

He wasn't shutting up. He was kissing her belly through her dress, quick, eager kisses that moved up and down as if he needed to bless every inch. She counted fifteen kisses before losing count. His tail was so tightly pressed against her legs that she almost lost her balance.

"Kurt, love, I'm going to fall."

He jumped up, held her by the waist with one hand, and placed the other on her belly. His palm was warm. His fingers were long.

"Babies," he whispered to her navel. "Hello, babies. I'm your daddy. Please don't kick Mommy too much. She's sensitive."

"I'm not that sensitive!"

"You cried over the margarine commercial yesterday!"

"Now we know why!" she retorted.

"That doesn't invalidate my argument," he said quietly, but loud enough for her to hear.

She laughed, and the sound filled the entire apartment, and outside the lights of Genosha shone like small stars in the night.

The First Month

Confirmation came two weeks later, in a small doctor's office. Dr. Varma was a mutant with the ability to see through solid matter; ultrasounds were almost anticlimactic for her, but she insisted on using the machine so the parents could see.

"Ready?" the doctor asked, spreading the cold gel over Yn's belly.

Kurt was sitting in a chair next to her, so close that his knees touched the examination table. He held his wife's hand as if she would collapse without support.

"Ready," she said, with more confidence than she felt.

The image appeared on the screen in black and white, grainy and mysterious. She had never had an ultrasound before, so it all seemed like meaningless blurs. But Dr. Varma smiled.

"Well…" she said, moving the transducer. "Let's see. Gestational sac number one. Heartbeat. Good and strong."

They exhaled in relief. A heart. A beating heart. Real.

"And gestational sac number two," the doctor continued, and she felt Kurt's hand squeeze hers with almost painful force. "Heartbeat present. Both embryos are healthy and within the expected range for four weeks."

"Two," Kurt whispered. His voice sounded strange, as if he were speaking through water. "There are two."

"They look like dichorionic twins," explained Dr. Varma, pointing to different areas on the screen. "Each with its own sac and placenta. That's great, it reduces the risk of complications."

She couldn't stop looking at the screen. Those two tiny dots, each pulsing with a life of its own. They were there. Inside her. Growing.

"Kurt" she called, because he was strangely silent.

When she turned her face, she saw that his eyes were closed and his lips were moving silently. He was praying. In German, from the words she could make out.

"—und segne diese Kinder, die mein Fleisch und mein Blut sind…"

And bless these children, who are my flesh and my blood.

She waited. Dr. Varma waited. Kurt finished his prayer, opened his eyes, and then did something that made her laugh loudly and wetly: he jumped from the chair, did a somersault in the air, and landed on his knees beside the stretcher, hugging her entire torso.

"Two" he repeated, now smiling. "Exactly two. I don't need to build a new house."

"I told you to pray."

"I prayed for two. " He lifted his face and kissed the tip of her nose. "God heard me. Or maybe it's just genetics. Regardless, I'm happy."

Dr. Varma printed the ultrasound images, and Kurt kept one in his left coat pocket, another in his right, and a third he stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet as soon as they got home.

That night, Yn found Kurt sitting on the bed, with the ultrasound photo in his lap and an open notebook beside him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sitting beside him with her wings partially extended for balance.

"I'm making a list." He showed her the notebook. There was a scribbled line at the top, written in Kurt's neat handwriting, and several lines below still blank. "Of everything I need to learn before they're born."

"Like what?"

"Changing diapers. Making baby food. Singing lullabies that aren't just the German ones my adoptive mother taught me… although I'll sing those too, for sure. Putting bandages on scraped knees. Tying shoelaces." Brushing the teeth of children who might have teeth like mine.

She looked at the list.

"There are over two hundred blank lines there, honey."

"I know," Kurt smiled, his golden eyes gleaming. "I'll fill each one in."

The Second Month

Sleep came like a relentless tide.

She had never been a napper. In fact, she always prided herself on her energy; her wings required considerable physical strength to keep open, and years of flying had left her in exceptional shape. But in the eighth week of gestation, something changed in her metabolism, and suddenly the whole world became a potential bed.

She fell asleep in the middle of grading papers, her face on the table, a red pen still in her hand, her wings spread like a makeshift blanket. Kurt found her like this when he returned from the board meeting.

"Liebling," he whispered, touching her shoulder. "Get up. Let's go to bed."

"Five minutes," she murmured, without opening her eyes.

Two minutes later, she was snoring softly.

The next day, she fell asleep on the sofa during a movie. Kurt covered her with a blanket and sat beside her, finishing the film alone with his tail curled around her ankle, just to feel her presence.

On Wednesday, she fell asleep while brushing her wings.

That was a particularly poignant moment. Kurt found her sitting on the terrace stool, a wide-bristled brush still clinging to the iridescent feathers, her head tilted to the side, her breathing deep and steady. The brush was halfway to a primary feather, caught at the wrong angle.

"Liebling," he said softly, kneeling behind her. "Do you want me to finish?"

She made a vague sound that Kurt interpreted as a yes.

He spent the next hour untangling her wings with infinite care. His hands, despite their unusual fingers, were surprisingly delicate. He separated each feather with the patience of a goldsmith, wiping away the dust and dirt of the day, smoothing out any splinters that had become misaligned. Under the twilight light, the feathers reflected fragments of rainbows on the apartment walls.

She slept the whole time.

"You need to stop doing that," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Sleeping in dangerous places."

She didn't answer.

On the fifth day, Kurt brought up the subject more directly.

"I know you're tired," he said during breakfast. "But you slept on top of the washing machine yesterday."

"It's warm."

"It's dangerous. And last week you slept on the windowsill."

"I was sunbathing."

"You were meters off the ground, liebe."

She shrugged, with a sleepy smile.

"I have wings."

"Closed wings! You had your wings closed! If you fell, you wouldn't have time to open them."

She kissed him on the cheek to end the conversation and went to sleep on the sofa. Kurt put socks on her cold feet and carried her to bed.

And that's how it became Kurt's new hobby: finding his wife in absurd places and transporting her to suitable sleeping locations. She slept on the dining table (he carried her to the bedroom), slept on the living room rug (he put her on the sofa with a pillow), slept standing up against the refrigerator (he sat her in a chair, then decided it wasn't comfortable and carried her to bed).

"You're treating me like a baby," she complained one afternoon when she woke up in the bedroom without knowing how she got there.

"You're carrying two babies," he replied, handing her chamomile tea and a biscuit. "Until they're born, you're my number one priority. And two. And three…"

She feigned irritation, but drank the tea and ate the biscuit, and when he sat down beside her and began to automatically stroke her wings, she was already asleep again before the bottom of the cup.

The Third Month

The third month brought with it a new phenomenon: Kurt talking to her belly.

Not just talking, conversing. Singing. Telling stories.

The first time happened on a rainy night. She was lying on the sofa, one hand on her belly which was beginning to show a small bulge, when Kurt knelt beside her and rested his face against her stomach.

"What are you doing?" she asked, not really caring.

"Introducing myself," he replied, seriously. "They need to know my voice."

She watched, fascinated, as he spoke softly to her two little points of life.

"Hello, my little ones," he said, and his voice was so low and soft that she felt chills. "I'm your father. My name is Kurt. I have a tail, and fur, and I'm blue. You'll probably be blue too, or maybe not. It doesn't matter. You'll be beautiful either way." Kurt's hands slid over her belly, massaging it with gentle, circular motions. "I want you to know that this world can be scary. People might look at you and not understand. But Mom and I will always be here. Always. Even when you grow up and decide you're too old for hugs."

"They'll never think they're too old for hugs," she interrupted, stroking his hair.

"Maybe not." Kurt smiled against her belly. "But if they do, I'll hug them anyway."

He began to sing. The song was in German, an old lullaby his adoptive mother had taught him. The melody was simple and a little sad, like many German songs, but Kurt's voice was warm like hot chocolate.

"Der Mond ist aufgegangen, die goldnen Sternlein prangen…"

The moon has risen, the golden stars are shining.

She closed her eyes. Kurt's hands continued massaging her belly, and his tail curled loosely around her leg. The sound of the rain outside blended with the lullaby.

She didn't know if babies could really hear. Books said that hearing began to develop around this time, but it was all so vague, so uncertain. Maybe it was all in Kurt's imagination.

Or maybe not.

Because when he sang the last note, she swore she felt a tiny movement inside her. Something minuscule, like a butterfly fluttering its wings.

"Kurt," she whispered. "They moved."

Kurt lifted his face so quickly he almost bumped his forehead against her belly.

"What?"

"I think I felt it. It might just be gas, but…"

He placed both hands on her belly, his eyes wide, his tail still. They waited. They waited.

Nothing.

"Maybe next time," Kurt said, but his smile didn't waver. He kissed her belly again, once, twice, three times. "You're going to kick for Daddy one day, aren't you? Yes, you will. You're going to kick so hard that Mommy will complain."

"Mommy is already complaining about everything," she laughed, pulling him up. "Your children are sucking my life energy."

"Our children," he corrected, snuggling up next to her on the sofa. His tail made a lazy movement and curled around her waist. "And they're going to suck a lot more before they're done."

"You don't need to remind me."

She fell asleep on the sofa again, but this time Kurt slept there too, curled up against her like a giant blue cat, his tail serving as an extra blanket.

The Fourth Month

"I can't believe this."

"Maybe they're shy," the doctor said with a laugh, completely understanding the indignation of the woman on the stretcher.

"Shy?" Dr. Varma raised an eyebrow, moving the transducer over yn's now visibly rounded belly "They're not being shy. They're being purposeful."

On the screen, two babies, now more clearly formed, with heads, arms, legs, and spines, were positioned in perfect synchronization. Both with their legs crossed. Both with their backs to the transducer.

No possible angle revealed what was between their legs.

"This is the first time this has happened to me," Dr. Varma admitted, sounding almost impressed. "Usually at least one of them cooperates."

"My children," Kurt said, with a barely disguised smile of pride, "are strategic geniuses. They've been coordinating since the womb."

"Either they're two stubborn boys…" she sighed, leaning back on the examination table. "Or two stubborn girls."

"Or one of each stubborn one," the doctor added.

They tried for another twenty minutes. Kurt made faces, sang, even teleported to the other side of the room and back, hoping the noise would make the babies move. Nothing. The two remained motionless, legs stubbornly crossed, as if on strike.

"Alright…" Dr. Varma turned off the equipment. "We'll try again next month. Sometimes they turn around when they get bigger."

On the way home, Kurt was strangely excited.

"That's good!" he said, as they walked along Genosha beach. The white sand shimmered in the sun. "Now we have a whole month to think of names."

"We've already been thinking of names for three months."

"But now it's serious. Now we have a deadline."

She stopped on the sand, feeling the salty wind on her wings. She had stopped flying in the second month, her center of gravity had shifted unexpectedly, and even keeping her wings open for long periods had become tiring. But she liked letting them soak up the sun, the feathers reflecting colors against the blue sky.

"And what are your suggestions, Mr. Wagner?"

Kurt assumed an expression of deep concentration. Her fur trembled in the wind.

"Margot? For a girl?" he suggested. "Or Greta?"

"Greta is beautiful," she tried the name on her tongue. "Greta Wagner. It sounds strong. And for a boy?"

Kurt scratched the back of his neck, a nervous gesture she found irresistible.

"I thought of James. Because of Logan…"

"James Wagner… It's perfect." There was a brief silence. "And if it's two girls?" he asked.

"Greta and…" Kurt thought. "Anna? Because of Marie?"

"She'll cry when she finds out…" she smiled, imagining Rogue's reaction when she discovered it.

"She will." Kurt smiled too. "And if it's two boys?"

"James and…" she frowned. "Remy? To balance the tributes?"

"Remy Wagner?" Kurt made a face of amusement. "He'll never shut up about it again."

"Exactly."

They laughed together, sitting on the sand, with the sea stretching endlessly before them. She rested her head on Kurt's shoulder, her wings blending with the sunset.

The Fifth Month

"Kurt?"

No answer.

"Kurt, love, where are you?"

The apartment was silent, which was already strange, because Kurt made noise even when trying to be quiet. His tail would bump against things, or he would murmur to himself, or simply his presence seemed to fill the room with a low hum of energy.

But now, nothing.

She dropped the shopping bag in the kitchen and began to search. Empty living room. Empty bedroom. Bathroom, she cautiously opened the door, but only found the cold shower.

"Kurt?"

A sound coming from the back room. The room that would be the babies' room.

She walked there, her belly now round like a beach ball, and opened the door.

She froze.

Kurt was hanging upside down from the chandelier.

Literally hanging. His tail was wrapped around the metal frame of the old chandelier they'd promised to replace months ago, and he was suspended in mid-air, his head dangerously high off the ground, his hands occupied holding two things: an instruction manual and a loose piece of the crib he was trying to assemble.

"Kurt Wagner," she said, placing her hands on her hips. "What are you doing?"

He looked up at her, his golden eyes tilted. His expression lost some of its dignity.

"Assembling the crib."

"Upside down?"

"My balance is better this way." He waved the manual. "Besides, this manual is in Swedish. Or Danish. Or maybe it's just a very creative way of writing English. I can't understand anything."

She approached, her wings closing to pass through the door.

"Honey, get down from there. You're going to fall and break your neck."

"I'm not going to fall. I'm an acrobat." He made a movement and the chandelier creaked menacingly. "I had that ability long before I developed teleportation."

"Kurt."

"Yes, darling?"

"Get down. Now."

With a dramatic sigh, Kurt unwound the chandelier's tail and fell, but instead of hitting the floor, he teleported mid-fall, appearing gracefully seated in the crib box.

"You're going to give me a heart attack," Yn said, sitting heavily in the only chair in the empty room. "And it's not good for babies."

Kurt immediately abandoned the pose and went to her, kneeling before the chair, his hands going straight to her belly.

"Sorry, liebe. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You always scare me. It's your gift."

He chuckled, a low, warm sound, and rested his head in her lap.

"The room is looking beautiful," she said, looking around. The walls were a soft blue, almost gray, which matched the sky on a rainy day. There were two large crib boxes, a changing table box, and three huge bags of baby clothes that Rogue had sent as a gift.

"I still don't know which crib goes on which side," Kurt murmured against her stomach. "And I can't decide on the color of the sheets. And there's a spider in the corner that I promised to remove three days ago, but it's built a very pretty web and I feel bad."

"Well… We can put the spider in the pots on the balcony… And… I'll help you with the assembly," she said.

They spent the next three hours assembling crib number one. Kurt read the manual (which wasn't in Swedish, just a very poor translation from Chinese), she separated the pieces and screwed in the screws. At one point, Kurt got distracted trying to balance a wooden plank on his nose, and she laughed so hard the babies kicked.

She felt it. Real kicks, strong, unmistakable.

"Kurt!" she gasped, grabbing his hand. "Feel."

Her hand covered the exact spot where one of the babies had kicked. They waited. One second. Two.

A beat. Small, but definite.

Kurt gasped as if he'd been punched.

"They're there," he whispered. Real. They're really there.

"I've been saying that for five months."

"I know, but now I felt it." He laughed, a marveling laugh, and placed both hands on her belly, his tail curling around her waist. "Hello, babies. It's me again. Daddy."

Another kick.

"They're laughing at you…" she said.

"I don't mind." He kissed her belly with an exaggerated noise. - You can laugh at Dad all you want. Just keep kicking.

The Sixth Month

The knock on the door came at two in the afternoon, when she was taking her daily nap on the sofa (a nap she now openly admitted was necessary instead of fighting against it). Kurt answered, already smiling when he saw who it was through the night vision his eyes gave him.

"Remy! Anna!"

"We came to visit!" Gambit said with his Louisiana accent, entering unceremoniously. "And we brought presents!!! " he showed two bottles of wine.

"You brought wine…" Kurt observed, closing the door. " Yn can't drink. You know, right?"

"The wine is for us, mon ami. To survive the visit."

Anna slapped her husband's arm.

"Don't give him any attention, Kurt. Where's my favorite sister-in-law?"

"Sleeping on the sofa." Kurt guided them through the small living room. "But she wakes up with any noise."

"We always make a lot of noise," Gambit replied cheerfully.

Yn was already seated when they entered, blinking sleepily, her wings disheveled to one side. When she saw Rogue, her face lit up.

"Anna!"

"Yn!" Rogue crossed the room in three long strides and hugged her carefully, because Yn's belly was now impossible to ignore. "My God, look at you! You're huge!"

"Thank you for the compliment."

"It was a compliment. I swear."

They sat together on the sofa, and Gambit settled into the armchair, already opening one of the bottles of wine. Kurt went to get glasses.

"So," Rogue said, her eyes glued to her belly, "how come you didn't tell me this before? I had to find out from Xavier, who found out from Cerebro. Are you kidding me?"

"We wanted to wait until the first trimester," Kurt explained, returning with the glasses. "And then we forgot."

"You forgot?" Gambit raised an eyebrow. "How could you forget to mention that you're having babies?"

"There's a lot going on." she defended herself, though she knew it wasn't a good excuse. "Genosha, classes, exams…"

'The exams that show there are twins' Kurt finished, in a tone that tried to be casual.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Rogue put down the wine glass she hadn't even filled yet.

"Twins?"

"Twins," Yn confirmed, a nervous smile on her face.

"Twins," Gambit repeated, putting down the bottle. "Two blue babies?"

"Or purple," Kurt said. "Or pink. We don't know. Genetics is complicated."

Rogue began to cry.

It wasn't a discreet cry, with silent tears streaming down her face. It was a loud, wet sob, accompanied by a repeated "Oh my God." She grabbed yn's hands.

"You're going to be a mother. Of twins." Tears streamed down her pale face. "I'm going to be an aunt. Of two children."

"Aunt Anna…" Yn said, pulling her into a hug. "It sounds good."

"The best sound." Rogue hugged her tightly, then pulled away with a sudden expression of horror. "Wait. We're not giving presents. We didn't bring presents."

"You brought wine," Gambit offered.

"Wine isn't a gift for a pregnant woman, Remy!"

"It's a pre-pregnancy gift. To celebrate the past pregnancy."

"You're so useless."

Kurt laughed, sitting on the arm of the sofa next to his wife. His tail descended and curled gently around her shoulder.

"You don't need gifts. Just being here is… " he hesitated, searching for the word -"is family. That's enough."

Gambit raised his newly filled wine glass.

"To the babies " he toasted. "May they come with lots of health and patience, because they'll need to put up with this proud father."

Rogue wiped away her tears and took her glass.

"To the babies." She looked at yn, and her smile was so big it seemed to light up the room. " And to the bravest mother I know."

The Seventh Month

Her pregnancy cravings started reasonably well.

At the beginning of the seventh month, she woke up with an overwhelming craving for pickles. Pickles with honey. Pickles with honey and peanut butter.

"It's disgusting," she admitted herself, while Kurt prepared the dish in the kitchen. "It looks disgusting. But I need it."

Kurt didn't question it. He simply made it. He sliced ​​the pickles, spread honey, spread peanut butter, and served with a smile.

"If you'll allow me, I'd like to try some."

"Don't try it. It will ruin your gastronomic experience forever."

He tried it. He grimaced. He apologized for the grimace. He ate another piece just to make her smile.

The next day, it was bread with Nutella and black olives.

On the third day, it was mashed potatoes with raisins.

On the fourth day, Kurt returned from the kitchen with a tray and a tired smile.

"I couldn't find pickle ice cream, so I made a mixture of vanilla ice cream with chopped pickles and salted caramel. Is it remotely similar?"

She ate three bowls.

"You're the best husband in the world," she declared, her mouth full.

"I'm the only husband you have," he replied, sitting down beside her on the sofa. His hand found its automatic way to her belly, where it rested as if it belonged there. "But I appreciate the compliment."

It was during the third bowl that it happened.

A kick. Not the gentle kick, the butterfly kick they had felt before. A strong kick. An impact. Kurt felt it against the palm of his hand.

"Wow!" he said, his eyes wide.

Another kick. Then another. Then a series of movements that looked like a frenetic dance.

"They're awake," she laughed, her laughter punctuated by the kicks. "And they're angry about the ice cream."

"Or they're grateful." Kurt knelt on the floor, placing his face sideways against her belly. "Hello, little ones. Did you enjoy Mommy's snack? Daddy made it."

A direct kick to his cheek.

"I'll take that as approval."

He stayed there, kneeling, his hands cupped over her belly, feeling every movement. The babies were more active than ever, and each kick brought a new smile to Kurt's face. He sang softly in German, the usual lullaby, and the kicks gradually subsided until they became gentle movements.

"They like your voice…" she said, running her fingers through his hair.

"Maybe it's the German. It has a good cadence for lullabies."

"Or maybe it's just you."

He lifted his face and smiled. That smile that made his golden eyes shine like little suns.

"Or maybe it's just me."

That night, they ate dinner in the living room because she didn't have the energy to move to the table. Kurt prepared spaghetti and meatballs (a reasonable order, for the first time in days) and ate it sitting on the floor next to the sofa, one hand always on her belly.

"Aren't you going to eat with both hands?" she asked, watching him balance the plate on one leg.

"I am eating." He took a demonstrative bite. "My right hand is free."

"Your right hand is on my belly."

"Exactly. Free to be there."

She didn't argue. She liked his hand there. She liked the warmth of his palm, the way his long fingers moved in gentle circles, the way he sometimes talked to the babies between bites.

"Eat plenty, my little ones," he would say. "Mommy is eating for three now."

The Eighth Month

Her belly in the eighth month was a force of nature.

She could no longer see her own feet. She couldn't see her legs. She definitely couldn't see her vulva, a fact that became painfully obvious one Friday afternoon when she got out of the shower and stared at her own reflection in the fogged mirror.

“Kurt,” she called, her voice coming out in a tone he’d already learned to identify as “non-life-or-death-but-approximately” emergency.

He appeared in the bathroom doorway in less than three seconds, his tail bristling with concern.

“What is it? Are you having contractions? The babies?”

“The babies are fine.” She pointed down. “I can’t see anything.”

Kurt blinked.

“…nothing?”

“Nothing, Kurt. I can’t see my feet, my legs, and I definitely can’t see… down there.” She gestured vaguely toward her pelvic area. “And it’s all… growing. Wildly.”

Kurt understood before she finished the sentence.

“You want me to…”

“I’m not asking,” she interrupted, blushing. “I’m just… informing you of the situation.”

“I understand.” He tilted his head, his golden eyes soft. “What if I volunteered?”

Silence stretched out. She looked like a red flower from head to toe.

"You don't need to."

"I know I don't need to." He went into the bathroom, took the razor and shaving cream from the shelf. "I want to help."

"It's… intimate."

"Liebe, you know how you got pregnant, don't you?" He guided her to the bed, where she lay down and he knelt on the plush rug before her. "Nothing is too intimate after all this."

"Are you really going to do this?"

"And maybe… something more." Before she could ask, she felt his tongue lick her from the inside of her right thigh to her clitoris.

"Oh…" was all she needed to say before his tail wrapped around her leg, Kurt's hands embraced her hip, and his face buried in her sex. His mouth devoured his wife as if she were his favorite meal, and if she dared to move, Kurt would let out a sound very similar to a growl, as if trying to take the favorite food from a skinned cat.

There she remembered exactly how she got pregnant.

The Ninth Month

The contractions began at three in the morning on a Sunday.

She woke up with a pain that tightened like an iron belt, gasping, her hands gripping the sheet. Kurt woke up beside her instantly; he hadn't slept soundly since the beginning of the seventh month.

"Liebe?" His voice was hoarse with sleep, but his eyes were already fully awake.

"I think…" she breathed deeply as the contraction passed. "I think it's time."

Kurt didn't ask if she was sure. He didn't ask her to wait. He simply acted: he grabbed the birthing bag that had been packed since the sixth month, helped her to her feet (a process that now took several minutes), and wrapped her in his robe.

"I can teleport you to the hospital," he offered. "But it might be disorienting for the babies, so—"

"Let's go by car," she leaned on him. "Nature wants to do things slowly."

The Genosha hospital had an entire wing dedicated to mutant births. The nurses were mutants, the doctors were mutants, and the equipment was adapted for every possible anatomy. No one gave Kurt's tail or her wings a second glance.

The labor lasted four hours.

Kurt didn't leave her side for a single second. He held her hand when she squeezed hard enough to break bones (they didn't break, but he felt the snap). He wiped her forehead with damp cloths. He sang in German, in English, in French, exhausted his repertoire and started making up songs in between.

"You can't sing…" he whispered during a pause between contractions.

"It was never about knowing how to sing. It was about distracting."

"You're not distracting me!!! I'm being ripped in half here!!!!"

"Sorry." He kissed her hand. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Don't you dare!" She closed her eyes. "SING THAT ONE ABOUT THE STAR!!!!"

And he sang.

At seven past two in the morning, the first baby was born.

She was blue.

Not blue like Kurt, lighter, like the sky at the beginning of the night, or like the darkest feathers of yn's wings. She had a tail. Small, thin, curled like a fern fetus. And wings. Tiny wings folded on her back, covered in iridescent down that shimmered in shades of blue and pink when the room light hit them.

"It's a girl," the nurse announced, and the baby's cry filled the room.

Yn cried. Kurt did too.

"Our little Anna…" she whispered, receiving the little blue bundle in her arms.

"Anna Wagner," Kurt finished, his voice faltering. He touched his daughter's face with a finger, the tip of his enormous finger against her tiny cheek. She grasped his finger.

"Kurt…" Yn called, and her voice had a different tone. "There's another one."

The second birth came five minutes later.

The baby was also blue, a darker shade than her sister, closer to Kurt's blue. He had no tail. But he had pointed ears, long, jointed fingers, and a pair of delicate, still-wet wings that trembled in the cold air of the room.

"It's a boy," the nurse announced, and the second cry joined the first.

"James," she said, exhausted, radiant. "James Xavier."

Kurt held the boy in hands that trembled like leaves. The baby was so small. So fragile. His tiny wings looked like flower petals, and his eyes, gray like all babies', gazed at the world with a bewildered expression.

"Hello, my son," Kurt whispered. "Hello, my little James…"

The nurse placed Anna back in her mother's arms, and for the first time, the four were together.

Kurt sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his son in his left arm, his wife beside him with their daughter. His tail moved slowly, curling around the two babies like an extra blanket. She spread her wings, exhausted, aching, but still beautiful, and wrapped them around them all.

Blue. Rainbow. Feathers. Fur. Tails. Wings.

A family.

"Happy Mother's Day, love," Kurt said, his voice so full of tears and love that the words barely came out.

She looked at him. At the babies. At the future that stretched before them, uncertain and frightening and wonderful.

She kissed Anna's forehead. He kissed James's forehead. Then they kissed, over their children's heads, while the white wings and blue tail enveloped them like the embrace none of them had as children.

In Genosha, the sun set over a nation of free mutants.

In a small apartment, awaited a room painted soft blue, two cribs, and a spider still living in the corner, because Kurt hadn't had the courage to undo the web.

And in the near future, two babies would learn to spread their wings, to use their tails, to walk on two feet (or three, depending on their balance), and to know, above all, that they were loved.

Not despite who they were.

“Oh, Y/N! We’re just teasing!” Jean giggled as you pouted at all of them finding your embarrassment amusing.

“I just don’t see why you haven’t told him about her feelings yet!”

They all knew you’ve had the biggest crush on the fuzzy blue X-Man, Nightcrawler, ever since he joined the team a few months ago. He was always so nice to everyone, including you, and he seemed to always say the right thing at the right time. He even made your morning coffee sometimes when you got up late, knowing everyone’s coffee order by heart by now.

The boys were outside playing basketball with Jubilee and Roberto, showing the younger ones how it was done. You watched out the window at the court, seeing Gambit and Wolverine battling for the ball before Kurt teleported between them and snatched the ball from them, tossing it into the basket and laughing when they both started yelling about the “no powers” rule. You smiled before realizing you were staring, clearing your throat and turning to Rogue.

“You know I get too nervous around your brother, I can’t even ask him to pass the salt at dinner!”

“Yer always nervous, that’s fine! But y’know, he totally likes you too. I can tell.”

“No he doesn’t.” You shook your head in denial.

“Yes he does.” All three women said at the same time, side eyeing you or rolling their eyes.

“My dear, Kurt is a very charismatic man, but he goes out of his way to make you smile every chance he gets.” Ororo set her hand atop of yours. “I even see a flash of disappointment when you flee from his advances.”

“Really?” You asked, feeling a bit guilty about making him feel bad. You were a generally nervous person, but your anxiety sky rocketed around him, your heart always felt like it would explode out of your chest when he got close to you or touched you. It was difficult to hold eye contact with him, your nerves getting the best of you and looking down at the floor while you spoke to him. You’d give him a scared smile when he handed you things, your blood running cold when his hand brushed up against yours during those exchanges. You often found your eyes wandering to him when he wasn’t focused on you, it was easier to look at him when you knew he wasn’t aware of you checking him out. You loved the way his tail squashed playfully as he joked around with Morph, how his ear would twitch like a cats when he heard someone new enter the room, how his fangs gleamed when he smiled or how his bright yellow eyes sparked with mischief during a fight.

“Okay…you know what? Todays the day, today I need to confess to him! If I don’t today, I never will cause I’m a baby and will back out.” You stood up confidently.

“Yeah! Go get em, tiger!” Rogue cheered as you walked away, then lowered her voice. “She ain’t gonna.”

“I think Y/N can do things she sets her mind to.” Storm defended you.

“Wanna put ten bucks on it?” Rogue raised an eyebrow and cheekily grinned.

“…you’re on.” Storm nodded, shaking her hand as Jean spoke up, saying she’d bet alongside Storm that you could do it.

“You know I can still hear you all?” You crossed your arms from the window, getting a closer look and watching Kurt dodge Roberto’s lunge. Your friends all laughed as you shook your head, trying to get ahold of your nerves.

How were you supposed to tell the most handsome, heroic, sweetest, most amazing person ever you were in love with them? Kurt was genuinely the kindest person you’d ever met, giving you butterflies when you watched him comfort a mutant child during a fight, or how he helped his teammates so gently when they were injured. You couldn’t fathom how people were afraid or disgusted by him, he was the most gorgeous man in the world. How you could see a tinge of indigo under his blue fur when he blushed or bruised, how sculpted and chiseled he was yet also was so soft to look at. When he wore sweatpants and a tank top after training one day, you swore you would have a heart attack right then and there seeing how attractive he looked in the outfit. You adored sneaking peeks of him working out alone, his muscles bulging when he did push ups or pull ups on a bar, how flexible and agile he was and how effortless he made it look. You’d stand outside the door until you felt you would get caught staring, not wanting to seem like a creep.

You were suddenly pulled out of your thoughts when the door opened, Wolverine carrying Jubilee, pretending to be limp and passed out in his arms.

“What happened?” Jean asked as the girls all stood up from their little coffee and gossip session.

“She tripped and scraped her knee trying to get the ball from Logan!” Morph snickered as they all filed inside.

“I’ve been attacked! He pushed me and now I’m severely wounded!” Jubilee whined dramatically as Logan set her down on the counter. You waited for Kurt while you listened to Jubilee and Wolverine bicker about the seriousness of her cut knee, feeling your heart skip a beat when he finally walked in, chatting with Hank.

“Um…hey, Kurt?” You spoke quietly, but Kurt’s ear twitched and picked up your shy voice.

“Yes, Miss Y/N?” He asked, stopping and letting Hank go ahead of him.

“I…um…could you find a first aid kit, please?”

You blushed when you heard your friends laugh behind you and Storm and Jean handed Rogue money, knowing Kurt was looking past you at them, wondering what they were doing. You felt like a dork backing out of confessing and asking him to do something you could easily do, but you changed your mind at the last second that you weren’t ready yet.

“Sure.” He smiled, before bamfing off. You turned and glared at your friends, before walking walked over to Jubilee, seeing blood dripping down her shin and gravel from the court embedded inside of it.

“Ouch, let me clean that for you.” You said and wet a paper towel, ignoring Logan saying how she was fine and it was part of growing up and being a kid. You kneeled down and patted down Jubilee’s injury, soaking up the blood and wiping out any gravel from the wound.

“Here you are, Y/N.” You heard a familiar sweet, velvety voice beside you. You looked over and saw Nightcrawler holding out a first aid kit from the nearest bathroom, a charming grin on his face.

“Oh, um, thank you Kurt.” You smiled at him shyly, before quickly turning your attention to Jubilee. You didn’t see the look of rejection in his yellow eyes as the irritated twitch of his tail at that, before he sighed and bamfed off again.

*a couple hours later*

“Mein Gott!” The mutant shouted in surprise, also not paying attention to where he was going before tumbling backwards at the collision. You were on your way to training, focusing on wrapping up your hands to look where you were going. Now, you knocked down the last person you wanted to. You felt bad seeing the gorgeous man on the floor because of you.

“Kurt! I’m so sorry! Here, let me help!” You held a hand out to him, but he got up himself.

“It is fine.” He said simply before walking past you, then suddenly pausing and turning to you. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.” You fidgeted with your hands nervously, anxious for the question.

“Do you…have I offended you in some way?” He asked, his eyes flashing with a bit of sadness.

“What? No? Why would you think that?” You asked, worried your timid behavior had finally kicked you in the ass.

“You tend to just brush me off, I’ve noticed. Lately you don’t really look at me, you respond with few words to me. I just thought…maybe I did something to scare you? Disgust you? Perhaps I…you think I’m a monster?”

You stared at him in the hallway, shock freezing your thoughts for a moment. How could he ever think your awkwardness around him could be because you thought he was disgusting? That he thought you found him frightening? You hadn’t realized how not making eye contact or responding curtly would come across to him, a man who’s been persecuted and attacked his whole life for how he looked. He was the most admirable, amazing person you’d ever met and you made him feel like a monster.

“Kurt, no! Not at all! I just…I do like you, I do! You just…make me very nervous. More so than I usually am…”

“How? Do I intimidate you?” He tilted his head in confusion. “I do not mean to-“

“It’s not that, really. I uh…I just really admire you, I guess. You make me more nervous than the others because…because I really like you…a lot.” You looked down at the floor, shyly looking up into his eyes. His face relaxed when he finally understood what you meant.

“Oh…I apologize for thinking so little of your actions. You are understanding and non judge mental, I should never have assumed what I did about you. How about I take you out to apologize for my ignorance?” He flashed his fangs at you in a charming smile, slowly approaching you before he was close enough to hold out a hand to you.

“I-I…okay.” You took his hand and sheepishly smiled up at him, allowing him to guide you down the hall. “I’m really sorry I made you feel like I-“

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.

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Remy Lebeau/Gambit

- to say he’s into it is an understatement. I don’t think he minds his partners sex drive (was willing to pursue his love for rogue, even when neither of them were sure if there would ever be a solution to their touch problem.) however, I think he’d be more than happy to have a lover with a similar or same libido to him. Sex happens so often it’s genuinely a miracle either of you get stuff done. A morning quickie, date night sex, club bathroom, his car, the couch, kitchen counter. You’ve both mastered the art of getting each others clothes off in record time.

- He’s down for pretty much anything that isn’t hurting you, he’s okay with putting you in a bit of a headlock, maybe a little holding your jaw, but he doesn’t want you ever struggling to breathe, even a little. He has no qualms with you tying him up, giving him a little adrenaline rush, edging him. He’s an adrenaline junkie, he loves that shit. He can be dominant or sitting on his knees begging to go down on you, it’s up to you really.

- Remy is a “ready for sex” whenever kind of guy. You feel in the mood? The dudes already hard. He could go almost anywhere, anytime, anywhere, although his favourite places would be: bed, couch, and his car. He would have no issues keeping up with you, and would enjoy it.

- We KNOW he’s competitive, so occasionally seeing who can overexert each other more is a game. Teasing eachother, seeing who taps out first.

In the case that you win.. what finishes him off is you riding him. Seeing you on top of him, There’s a strange sort of intimacy of it. You moving slowly up and down his overstimulated cock, it makes his eyes glass over a little. He forgets to speak English, clutching onto your hips like it’s all that’s keeping him together. He looks sooo pretty when he finally reaches his climax.

In the case that he wins.. he’s going down on you. He has been for hours. Teasing you, coaxing each edged orgasm after orgasm from you. His hair messed up from your sweaty hands pulling on it helplessly. he gets so fucking cocky with you like this. he could honestly cum just from going down on you. at your final orgasm, on the last leg of his relentless victory, he wouldn’t tease it out of you. instead just letting you cum. Kissing up your body afterward for a brief break before round two.

- Remy can absolutely keep up. no matter how competitive you both get, you end up haphazardly thrown around each other, snoozing together and contentedly exhausted. He wakes before you just so he can make you something to eat, kissing you awake with the gentlest coaxing.

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Kurt Wagner

- Mr.“make more mutants” himself… the dude is a freak. gambit could match your libido, but kurt?? he is THE freak. i don’t think he could go a crazy amount of rounds all at once, BUT i do think he has stamina. so multiple longer, drawn out rounds, a lot of experimenting…if you catch my drift. he is into it!! i think he would be able to manage it pretty well. probably does need a decent amount of recharging time however.

- The tail gets used. (looking at you, Uncanny Spider-Man Issue #3 and legion of x #4..) he can grab with it, he can restrain wrists with it, any wild thing you could think of to do with his tail? he’s not above trying it at least once.

- I feel like he’s a little shy about biting/leaving hickeys, but if you’re into it he doesn’t mind a little grazing of skin with his fangs. i think he would draw the line at drawing any blood on purpose though. He’s SO down for you biting him a little, and would totally be down for you giving him hickeys,..except, he feels bad that they don’t show up and you have to have a mouthful of fur each time you attempt to give him any/

- Slightly off but on topic, i think he prefers sex in a colder environment cause of his fur, not overheating makes him last longer. He also doesn’t mind a little cold temperature play as well. Ice, water, cold hands..as well as having a shower ritual before having sex with you (unless you don’t mind the sulphur smell that clings to his fur, however he would need to be HEAVILY talked into not showering before sex. Dude gets a little insecure of the weird rotten egg smell)

- Again, he’s not one for super fast aggressive rounds, the slower, sensual, drawn out ones are what he’s good at. If you’re both starting to tire it’s not uncommon for you both to end up falling asleep while having sex, waking up and then starting up again.

- He gives the sweetest aftercare, he’s all holding you close, making sure he didn’t accidentally cut you or leave any marks, pressing kisses all over your shoulders while you bathe together (it’s also incredibly fun to lather up his fur. It just feels cool).

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Storm

- The most elegant freak you’ve ever came across. When you guys start having sex I think both of you are mapping each other out. The first few times you both realise you have high libidos and from there, it only gets better. Storm is so lovingly put together and calm, that half the time you can’t fully tell when she’s down for sex until she’s kissing just a little too low down your neck.

- Shes the type to go multiple rounds with you, fall asleep with you—and when you wake up she’s drinking tea and reading a book as if you weren’t making each other cum hard enough to feel a little light headed and seeing stars. She will smile sweetly, pouring you a cup too (if you like tea) and sitting with you for a little while, reading together or she reads and you watch something on TV.

- TEMP PLAY!! or messing about with sensations!! I defo see storm as being somebody who can take both a dominant role, or a more submissive one. However if she’s feeling like being a little dominant: you blindfolded, trailing a thin layer of water over your skin and using her mutation to summon a little breeze to blow over your skin, watching the goosebumps rise on your skin. I also don’t think she would entirely object degrading you a little. Not super cruelly, but more of a “praise and degrading” sort of thing.

- Loves receiving oral or having you either get off on her strap (yes, she has one. it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or woman, or anything in between.) or, other way round and it’s her being on the receiving end of some form of penetration. especially if she doesn’t have the full energy to get into the mood and wants to take a bit of a backseat while you satisfy yourself.

- Honestly, depending on the day I think it’d be you worrying about if YOUR libido could match hers, again. She is so calm and wise but I don’t think she’s shy in the bedroom by any means, if she’s in the right mood she can outlast YOU 😭

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Jean Grey

- Yes. So blatantly yes. Jean is similar to storm in a way, she comes off so calm and lovely, nobody would guess how she could be in the sheets. It even took YOU off guard. You assumed she would likely just able to manage the average, when you guys decided to have your “what to expect from sex” talk (what are hard no’s, kinks, how you like being taken care of after, getting to know what lines can or can’t be crossed) you’d let her know about your high sex drive. Letting her know that she never needed to feel compelled to keep up, and that if she was tired you had no qualms getting off yourself. She just smiles, telling you not to worry.

- When you have sex, she can fully keep up. In fact SHE is the one giggling about slipping in a little morning sex after a night that has tuckered you both out. Shes like..half subtle. Jean is the type of woman people lower their heads to simply out of respect. She can semi keep that air about her when both of you decide to sneak off for a little while.

- A hard no for her is ever using her telepathy on you during sex or using it to manipulate your feelings/consent in any way. Although, she’s not above using her telekinesis to make stuff move. if you’re both women (or a dude into this sort of thing), yes she is controlling the thrusting movement of a dildo for both of you.

- she gives the BEST aftercare, I see her as being very attentive. Again, the telekinesis comes in handy when it comes to getting things for you both from far away. She knows what you want (she may or may not read your mind to figure it out, however she knows you pretty well regardless)

- Neck kisses make her fold, literally for ANYTHING. If she’s contemplating something and you pull out the puppy eyes and a kiss to her neck? She’s a goner. And that includes caving in the bedroom too, if you beg just right she would let you cum in a heartbeat, She thinks it’s sweet even in the most sexual of contexts.

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Scott Summers

- He’s into it but he lowkey plays it off at first. the first time you guys have sex he’s a little awkward, and very much scared of his visor accidentally getting nudged or coming off. “am i doing this right?” “does this feel good” needs a lot of hands on learning, show him where you like being touched, let him watch you masturbate for uh..scientific research, let him learn what you’re into. However once he learns? the dudes a menace. he learns quick and keeps that information locked in his mind.

- He can last a long time, but similar to Kurt loves a sort of soft thought out sex. He’s also not above having sex to de-stress, being a leader sucks at times and sometimes he just wants to have you ride him or let him take over while he mutters about his day under his breath. he gets the habit of pulling on the sheets to the point there’s faint frayed spots all over them where the fabric has been worn down.

- Big fan of cuddling with you after sex, he might sit there working away on stuff while having his arm around you or your head on his shoulder. He needs a good recovery time afterwards. He also unironically loves holding hands during sex. You’re riding him? His hand is lacing with yours. He’s got you down on the bed? You feel his hand creeping up to give yours a squeeze

- Acts like the idea of you giving him head under his desk is scandalous, however does still allow you to do it time to time, only when he KNOWS nobody will walk in. The risk is there, sure. But if he’s expecting somebody it’s a hard no. He’s a freak, a shy one—but he also wants to remain professional when it matters.

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Logan

- Assuming we are talking about Logan when he’s in his prime, not only has he been alive for a long ass time, but we all know he could keep up as well as have a shit on of experience (If it’s old man Logan, I don’t think so. Be careful with that old man, he tries.)

- He’s into it absolutely no question. The dude goes FERAL for it. He has no shame either, that little guy is dragging you away at moments notice if you’re both in the mood (which, pretty much every time you both are) + he can smell when you’re getting a little hot under the collar. He uses that to his advantage as often as possible.

- Hard, Rough, Toe curling, Bed breaking sex. Sure, he’s small for a dude but he packs a punch (not literally. He’s here for a little grabbing your chin to look at him, but never actually hitting you). He can also lift you pretty easy no matter how much taller/heavier you are than him.

- This may be a head canon that gets me jumped by a certain area of wolverine enjoyers, but I don’t think logan is exactly the biggest down under the way I’ve seen others write him (I’m talking, people writing him as if he’s wayyyy above average.) he’s thick and 4-5 inches so kind of average/a little below, a lot of body hair. He knows how to use it, and he’s well past any shame he may face.

- Sex anytime, anywhere, any planet, and he’s pretty much down for anything. He goes between being pretty dominant, purely sweet and loving (when he really wants to appreciate you and love all over you), and being grumpy and slightly reluctant when receiving, not cause he doesn’t like it. But when he’s the center of attention, he gets a little flustered. Instead of flushing pink like the average person, he opts for being grumpy.

LOGAN HOWLETT

You’re mid-argument. Something about him leaving his dog tags on the nightstand again, something about the smell of cigar smoke clinging to your favorite sweater. He’s doing the thing where he just growls instead of using words, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like a man carved from angry marble.

You are trying to be mad. You really are.

But then your eyes drift down. To the hem of his worn, grey henley. To the way it’s riding up just a fraction of an inch above the waist of his jeans.

“and you never listen, and you just—Logan, hold still.”

He stops mid-snarl. “What?”

You don’t answer. You just walk forward, grab the damp, frayed cotton, and yank it straight up to his collarbone.

Silence.

For a full three seconds, he just stares down at you. Then at your hands on his shirt. Then at your face, which is currently doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that you are openly ogling the geography of his abdomen. The map of scars. The ridges of muscle that look like they were carved by a very angry, very horny god.

“…The hell you doin’?” he finally asks, voice dropping an octave.

“Checking for injuries,” you lie, voice barely a squeak.

He catches your chin with two fingers, tilts your face up. His eyes are unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bub. I heal.”

“Then I’m checking for… symmetry.”

He stares at you for another long, agonizing moment. Then he sighs, the kind of sigh that carries the weight of a century of suffering. He gently pulls his shirt down, but not before you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, turning back to the argument. But now he’s holding his coffee mug a little lower. And the next time he crosses his arms, he makes sure the shirt rides up just a little more. For the sake of symmetry.

WORST WOLVERINE

You find him on the couch. It’s 2 PM. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of Wade’s hot pink sweatpants (they were the only clean ones), a stained white tank top that has seen better centuries, and an expression of profound, feral exhaustion. Dogpool is licking his own foot on the floor. Blind Al is somewhere in the kitchen, loudly trying to microwave a fork.

You are supposed to be bringing him a beer. You do bring him the beer. But as you lean over to set it on the coffee table, your gaze snags on the hem of that tank top.

It’s already barely there. But you want more.

So you do it. You just grab the thin, greasy fabric and hoist it up to his armpits.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at you with those dead, tired eyes. His torso is a mess—a spectacular, horrifying, fascinating mess. Hair, scars, the memory of a thousand deaths. You could count his ribs if you wanted to, but you’re too busy looking at the way the muscles in his obliques twitch.

“…You done?” he asks, voice like gravel being dragged over broken glass.

“No,” you whisper.

He sighs. It’s the sigh of a man who has seen the multiverse crumble and found that this (his girlfriend ogling his post-apocalyptic abs) is the final indignity.

“You’re as bad as the red one.”

“I’m worse,” you admit, not letting go of the shirt.

WADE WILSON

You don’t even get to pull the shirt up. You barely reach for it.

One second your fingers are brushing the hem of his faded, chimichanga-stained t-shirt. The next, he has exploded out of it. The shirt is in tatters on the floor. He is standing in the middle of the living room, arms spread wide, wearing nothing but a pair of unicorn-print boxers and a triumphant grin.

“BABY! Why didn’t you SAY so?!” he bellows, striking a bodybuilder pose. “These bad boys have been DYING for a curtain call! Say hello to the lads! Upper management! The twins! The abdominal ambassadors!”

You blink. “I was just going to-”

“Shhhh.” He presses a finger to your lips. “No talking. Only looking. Feast your eyes, my little goblin. Feast upon the glistening, scar-riddled, perfectly-healed-from-forty-seven-stab-wounds terrain of TRUE LOVE.”

He then proceeds to do a full, unironic, unhinged strip tease to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on his phone speaker. He flexes. He points at each individual ab (he counts nine, there are four). He makes the muscle dance. He asks you if you want to “leave a tip in the tip jar” while gesturing vaguely below the belt.

By the end of it, you are crying with laughter, curled up on the floor. He takes this as a win, scoops you up, and carries you to the bedroom, whispering, “I knew my degenerative muscle disorder would pay off one day.”

You never did get to pull the shirt up. You didn’t need to. He pre-emptively detonated it.

ORIGINS! WADE WILSON

This Wade is smooth. Dangerously smooth. You two are sparring (lightly) when you trip him—not hard—and he lets you pin him just to see what you’ll do.

You lift his shirt.

He doesn’t flinch. He grins. “Checking for wounds, or checking for weapons?”

“weapons,” you say, eyes on the perfect V-line.

“Plot twist,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “the only weapon I’m hiding is right—"

You slap your hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence and I’m leaving.”

He shuts up and lets you look. He even does a little half-crunch so the lighting shifts. But the second your fingers drift too low, he catches your hand, kisses your knuckles, and flips you effortlessly.

Now he’s on top. His shirt is still up. “Your turn to show me something.”

“I don’t have abs like that.”

“Did I say abs?” He grins, all teeth. “I said ‘something.’”

REMY LEBEAU

You’re sitting on his lap in a booth at some dimly lit New Orleans bar. He’s in the middle of a truly insufferable poker story. You’re bored. So you lift his shirt.

He doesn’t stop talking. He just smirks.

“—and den de man, he say, ‘Gambit, you cheat,’ and I say, ‘Monsieur, I never cheat at cards. Only at love.’ Ah, chère, you likin’ what you see, non?”

You nod, transfixed. His skin is warm. There’s a fine trail of hair below his navel.

He finally looks down, still smirking, and flicks a playing card from his sleeve. He tucks it under his own shirt, right above his hip bone. “Find dat one, and you get a prize.”

You spend the next hour with your hand up his shirt, searching for a card that keeps changing positions via kinetic energy. The bar loves it. He loves it. By the end, you’ve forgotten the card entirely and are just holding his waist.

He kisses your forehead. “You cute when you focused.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Oui.” He pulls his shirt down. Then up again. Then down. Then up. “But you ain’t complainin’.”

KURT WAGNER

You are both in the X-Mansion’s library. It’s late. Rain is pattering against the windows. Kurt is reading a battered copy of The Three Musketeers in German, his tail curled contentedly around your ankle. He’s wearing a soft, black long-sleeved shirt that fits him like a second skin.

You’re not reading. You’re watching the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders. The way his biceps flex every time he turns a page. The way his tail flicks.

You lose the battle.

You lean over, grab the hem of his shirt, and yank it up to his chin.

He yelps. Actually yelps. The book goes flying. He bamfs—teleports—out of your grasp and reappears on the other side of the room, clinging to the ceiling like a startled cat, his shirt still bunched up around his neck, his golden eyes wide.

“Mein Gott!” he gasps, a flush spreading across his blue-furred cheeks. “What-why- schatz!”

You are laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He’s still on the ceiling, tail lashing, looking like a very confused, very sexy gargoyle. His abdomen is a work of art. Lean, powerful, dusted with the same velvety blue fur as the rest of him.

“I just wanted to see,” you wheeze.

He drops down from the ceiling in a puff of sulfur, landing in front of you with his shirt still askew. He looks at you, really looks at you, and his embarrassment melts into something softer. Something warmer.

“You could have asked,” he says, his accent thickening. He takes your hand and presses it to his stomach, right over his navel. The fur is incredibly soft. “You never have to steal what is already yours.”

EDDIE BROCK (& VENOM!)

You come home to find Eddie in the kitchen, hunched over a tub of tater tots, looking like a man who has made several poor life choices. He’s wearing a faded Newsies sweatshirt (don’t ask) and sweatpants.

You don’t even say hello. You just walk up, grab the hem of the sweatshirt, and hoist it up.

Eddie freezes, a tater tot halfway to his mouth. His stomach is… well. It’s not a six-pack. It’s a soft, solid, eat-a-whole-pizza-and-still-look-good kind of stomach. A little hair. A little scar from that time he got impaled by a symbiote hater. It’s perfect.

Before either of you can speak, a black tendril shoots out of Eddie’s chest and gently pushes the sweatshirt back down.

“No,” Venom’s voice growls, low and possessive. “Ours. Only WE get to look.”

“Venom, dude, they’re my girlfriend,” Eddie says, still not moving.

“Then WE will look at HER. Not at US.”

Another tendril wraps around you, and before you know it, your shirt is being torn off of you by a very insistent alien goo monster. Eddie chokes on his tater tot. You shriek.

“Better,” Venom rumbles, apparently satisfied with the view. “Now we are even. We will keep the sweatshirt down. You will keep YOUR shirt up. This is the new rule.”

Eddie buries his face in his hands. “This is not the new rule.”

“VOTE.” One tendril raises Eddie’s hand. Another raises an invisible one for Venom. “Two against one. New rule passes.”

You are now sitting on the couch on your bra, eating tater tots, while Eddie pretends to not be staring. You consider this an absolute win.

STEVE ROGERS

You’re in the kitchen of the Avengers Tower. Steve is making breakfast: pancakes from scratch, because of course he is. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored henley and an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” You have never wanted to kiss a cook more in your entire life.

He flips a pancake. His forearm flexes. The henley strains across his back.

You crack.

You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, and yank his shirt up.

He doesn’t react violently. He’s Steve. He just freezes, pancake flipper in hand, and looks down at your hands splayed across his bare stomach. His body is a monument. A tribute to the pinnacle of human (superhuman) achievement. Every muscle is defined, even after years of retirement. There’s a light dusting of blond hair below his navel. You could cry.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice that low, patient, dangerous captain’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring American history,” you whisper.

He turns off the stove. Slowly. Deliberately.

“We are in a common area. With cameras. That Tony definitely watches.”

“I wanted to see your abs.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. “You… you see them every day. When I change.”

“Not up close.”

He looks left. Right. Then, very quickly, he lifts his own shirt for exactly 1.7 seconds—then drops it. “There. Satisfied?”

“No. That was a crime.”

“You know,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his perfect lips, “in my day, a lady would simply ask to see a gentleman’s torso.”

“In my day,” you retort, “we just took what we wanted.”

“If I let you look for five seconds, will you stop doing this in transited areas of the Tower?”

“Deal.”

He lifts his shirt. You stare. He counts down from five out loud, but he goes slower on the “two.” And when he says “one,” he doesn’t let go.

You end up with your hands on his waist, him holding his own shirt up like a gentleman, for nearly a minute. Sam walks in. Sam walks back out.

Steve buries his face in your hair. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

“Worth it.”

TONY STARK

You are in his workshop. He’s under a car (one of his classic convertibles) wearing a grease-stained band t-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips. DUM-E is handing him wrenches. He is muttering about torque ratios.

You crouch down, slide a hand under the car to grab at the plank he's laying on and tug it out, and before he can say “Friday, what the hell,” you grab his shirt and yank it up to his neck.

Tony blinks. He’s on his back, covered in grease, and his girlfriend is now straddling his thighs, staring at his stomach like it’s the last slice of pizza on earth.

“...Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ve been in a lot of situations. Hostage situations. Space situations. That one time in Budapest with a goat. This is… new.”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“I’m not complaining!” He holds up his greasy hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, most people buy me a drink first. You went straight for the home run. I respect it. I’m a little scared, but I respect it.”

You run your fingers down the middle. He shivers. Actually shivers.

“Friday,” he whispers, “cancel my three o’clock.”

“You don’t have a three o’clock, boss.”

“Then cancel my existence. I’m busy.”

He pulls you down on top of him, shirt still up, and kisses you until you taste like motor oil and twenty-year-old guilt. When you finally come up for air, he’s grinning like the man who has everything, and just found out he gets to keep it.

PETER PARKER

He is hanging upside down from the ceiling. Because he’s Peter Parker, and he cannot just sit on a couch like a normal person. He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt that says “I ❤️ NY” and has a small hole in the armpit.

You walk under him. He grins, upside-down, all big brown eyes and messy hair. “Hey, my lov—”

You grab his shirt. You pull it up (or is it down?).

It slides down all the way to his chin, revealing his entire torso. And oh no. Oh no. He’s lean. He’s wiry. He’s got that swimmer’s build, all long muscle and narrow hips, and a faint trail of dark hair that makes you want to do things that would make your Catholic grandmother faint.

His face, already upside-down, goes nuclear red. “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa-!”

He tries to flip off the ceiling, but he’s so flustered he miscalculates and falls directly on top of you. You both crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His shirt is now down. He is now on top of you. He is very warm.

“I- you—why- my abs?!” he squeaks, his voice cracking like he’s fifteen again. “You wanted to see my- I have- they’re not even- they’re just-muscles!”

“Nice muscles,” you say, reaching up to poke one.

He makes a sound like a deflating balloon. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you’re touching them.”

“That’s generally what happens, yeah.”

He buries his face in your shoulder, ears burning red. But he doesn’t pull his shirt down. And he doesn’t get off you. And after a minute, you feel him mumble into your neck: “…do you want to see the back too?”

You have never loved anyone more.

THOR ODINSON

You are in New Asgard. Thor is on the couch, wearing a flannel shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course), eating a bowl of popcorn the size of your head. He’s in his “comfortable” era, softer around the edges, happier, more him.

You climb into his lap, because you fit there now. He grins, that big, golden, sunshine-in-human-form grin. “Hello, my love! Would you like some popcorn? I have also procured-"

You grab his flannel. You pull it open. Buttons fly everywhere. The shirt hangs off his shoulders, revealing his broad, glorious chest. He’s not as cut as he used to be. There’s a softness there now, a layer of warmth over the godly muscle. It is, objectively, the most attractive thing you have ever seen.

Thor freezes, a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Then he looks down at his exposed torso, then at you, then back at his torso.

“…Did you just… de-shirt me?”

“Button-de-shirted you,” you correct. “And yes.”

He considers this for a moment. Then he puts the popcorn down, leans back slightly, and spreads his arms wide on the back on the couch. His smile turns slow, warm, and devastating.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, register-rattling rumble, “on Asgard, it is customary to ask before one disrobes a prince.”

“On Midgard,” you reply, “we do what we want.”

He laughs a full, booming laugh that shakes the couch, and pulls you against his bare chest. He is so warm. So soft. So impossibly huge.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs against your hair, “take what you want, little mortal.”

You stay there for hours. The popcorn gets cold. Neither of you moves.

JOHNNY STORM

You are in the middle of a fight. A real one. He forgot your anniversary. You are screaming. He is deflecting. The Human Torch is currently being verbally immolated by his very angry girlfriend.

“and you said you would remember this time, Johnny, you promised!"

“Babe, I’m sorry, I was fighting a Mole Man—”

“THERE IS ALWAYS A MOLE MAN!”

You are so angry. So furious. Your blood is boiling. And then your eyes drop to his waist. He’s wearing his Fantastic Four uniform, the blue and black one, and the top is slightly untucked from his bottoms.

You grab it. You yank it up.

Johnny stops mid-sentence. His abs are obscene. A perfect, chiseled, airbrushed-by-the-gods six-pack that looks like it was designed in a lab specifically to make you forget why you were mad.

You stare.

He stares at you staring.

“…Are we still fighting?” he asks cautiously.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I forgot.”

His cocky grin returns. Slow. Smug. Infuriating. “So my abs just… saved the day?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not pushing anything. You’re the one who pulled up my shirt in the middle of a screaming match.”

You drop the shirt. It falls back down. You immediately pull it back up again.

He throws his head back and laughs, bright and loud and Johnny. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, sweetheart.”

“Shut up and take off the rest of the suit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

PETER QUILL

You are on the Benatar. In space. There’s a nebula outside the window. It’s very romantic. Peter is trying to impress you by playing Come and Get Your Love on his Zune and doing a stupid little dance.

He’s wearing his iconic red leather jacket, a grey t-shirt underneath, and that stupid, gorgeous, annoyingly charming smirk.

You walk up to him. He thinks you’re going to dance with him. He holds out his hand.

Instead, you grab his t-shirt and yank it straight up to his chin.

The music stops. Peter looks down. There’s a faint line of hair from his navel down. He’s suddenly blushing all the way to his ears.

“…Okay,” he says slowly. “I was not expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno. A slow dance? A compliment about my eyes for once? Not-not a surprise shirt-ectomy!”

You run a finger down his sternum. He shivers violently.

“Dude,” he whispers. “My nipples are out.”

“I’m aware.”

He looks at you. You look at him. The nebula glows purple outside the window. The song is still playing, forgotten.

“…You wanna see the rest?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.

“Peter Quill, are you offering to strip?”

“I’m offering to negotiate.”

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.

He was not the most muscular mutant on the team by far, but even his lean muscles could keep you trapped under him with his entire weight flushed against yours. Your vision fogged over each time his cock hilted in you, slamming hard and deep at a merciless pace. The stiff tip of his length rubbed against your sensitive walls and his grip on your thigh deepened every time you squeezed around him as if you were still begging for more.

Being with Kurt was a dream come true. He was charming, chivalrous, well-mannered without being dull. Even his touch on your skin when you pulled him into your room and locked the door behind you was gentle, his glowing eyes on you constantly as his hand inched higher and higher into your shirt like he was ready to back away the moment you showed any hint of regret. But you were determined to show him how badly you wanted him after waiting for so long. His back stiffened when the tip of his finger reached the underside of your chest and you arched your back into his touch, gripping him by the wrist and slipping his hand under your bra.

His groping became more certain at your clear indication of eagerness before clothes were scattered on the floor while you stumbled your way to the bed, the soft kisses and kitten licks turning into kiss marks at the side of your neck and canines dragging along your skin. You gasped when he finally entered you, your arousal running down your quivering legs when he bottomed out of you the first time, his head throwing back as a silent sigh left his lips.

You were warm around him and you made the most delectable sounds every time he pushed into you that he couldn't help but crave more, more, more.

Your legs hooking around his waist was not enough, he needed to be closer to you, needed to be deeper in you. Your pussy fluttered around the sudden emptiness when he pulled out of you, the swollen tip of his erection dripping in pre. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips when your handsome lover fisted his cock, spreading the white bead all over your lower lips as he dragged his length along your needy sex.

He took you by surprise when his hand first found the underside of your thigh, pushing it up until your knee could almost touch your chest.

Your hand went to grip the sheets when he buried his entire length in you without warning, his pelvis now snug against the backside of your hips as he kept your leg in place. You tried to dig your nails into the bed for leverage as his pace picked up but he was faster, his free hand shooting up to intertwine with your fingers in a firm grasp before pinning it above your head.

Arching uncontrollably at this new angle he was fucking you in, the shocking waves of pleasure were too much to withhold. Your body grew hotter and hotter by the second and you tried to push yourself away from the mind-numbing sensation. But drunk in the ecstasy of your proximity and his primal instinct kicking in, his tail found your ankle before his mind even knew it when you dug your heel trying to scramble away. You couldn't help but whimper at the dominance of the act, the near possessive coil around your ankle making you feel as if you were in heat, craving to be filled and claimed by the only one who could make you feel so good.

His lips found yours hungrily as he leaned his weight against you, swallowing the sinful moan that ripped from the back of your throat when he hit the spongey spot deep inside you. Both of your legs bent and pressed against your body in the perfect position for him to ram into you, his hand squeezing yours each time he thrust.

"Schatz, mein schatz," wet, hot breath trailed at the side of your exposed neck as you made out the little you could understand from the drunken syllables strung together by his lust, "so beautiful, and all mine—"

His name rolled off your tongue like a mantra, your only hand that he had not pinned down clinging desperately to his shoulder for leverage.

A possessive tick that would have scared him had he been in a clear state of mine overtook his reason and as you stared at him all lust-filled and glossy-eyed, a sudden anger rose at the pit of his stomach as his core tightened. Fresh marks were forming on your skin and it was certain that evidence of his passion would adorn your skin all over from how hard he was holding onto you.

But it did not seem to be enough.

The idea, no matter how faint and impossible it was, that someone else could have what was his and his alone made his blood boil.

"Gonna fill you up, liebling," you could only nod weakly in response with how good he was fucking you, his grunts snarly in your ear and dripping in want, "fill you up nice and full so you could feel it for days."

"Yes, yes please," his words were lost on you but god, would you say yes to anything he said as long as he kept doing what he was doing, "I'm yours, all yours!"

He moaned loudly at the thought, such a pretty noise coming from his lips as his cock ravished your abused hole. Bodies melt into one under the joint heat radiating off your skin, the soft fuzz of his fur sending tingles along your skin each time his body surged against yours.

Toe-curling rushes of euphoria washed over your body as he stilled inside of you, your walls clenching and spasming around him as you rode out your orgasm. Warmth flushed your senses as he came inside of you, hot desire pumping deep inside you like he promised. You returned gladly when he leaned down to kiss you while the last of his seed painted your insides. "I love you, I love you I love you I love you..." his voice cracking at the end of each word in a sudden moment of vulnerability, almost like he was on the verge of tears from the emotion and sensation filled high.

Kurt's body crashed into yours and his grip on you loosened as he opted to hold you against his chest inside. Burying your face into the crook of his neck, his scent soothing you as your bodies stayed connected. Still sensitive, you sighed weakly in contentment when he grew limp inside of you, his release threatening to leak out of you as your walls fluttered.

"I love you."

You heard his loving declaration from the back of his chest, his voice soft as his breathing slowly steadied.

As was most of the X-Men sitting in the dinning area.

They all watched him as he seemed deep in thought and they knew why.

You were 2 days overdue and you were miserable..

They hadn't induced you yet, as it seemed after the 4th day they would if your labor didn't occur naturally.

However that overdue was making you hate your existence, your husband, your friends-

Even the fucking Air.

"Maybe more spicy foods?"

Ororo suggested softly, Kurt just shaking his head.

"Nein- She has gotten every pepper on earth and made stir fry.. Ive never smelled something so spicy before... my lungs burned"

"Maybe uh- Physical activities?"

Scott said softly, giving a light cough in mild embarrassment at the soft suggestion but Kurt shyly shifted.

"Been doing that-"

Jean shook her head sof5ly.

"Poor (Y/N)-"

Kurt hummed in agreement as he rubbed his face. Stressed over how miserable you were, he felt so guilty.

He never wanted to have you be in a state like this.. Sure it was amazing to see you round with his child- a picture he had only dreamed of seeing before you guys were first dating.

But he hadn't truly grasped at the price of his fantasy. Never realized the extreme suffering that went with pregnancy till now...

The pain, hormone, sweating, cravings, bloating and overall hell!

Kurt stood up then, deciding to see you instead of throwing ideas around your guys friends.

Quickly teleporting away to the front of your guys room, taking a moment to let the air clear around him since he had learned early on the brimstone smell made you sick.

Walking in he was met with a rather interesting view- but one he'd grown used to ironically.

You were seated on a yoga ball facing the bed slowly bouncing on it with your head bowed and arms stretched over the crumpled blankets.

You were in a pair of sweats you'd stolen from him and a shirt that was only halfway covering your belly oh so wonderfully painted with deep magenta stretchmarks. You had run out of fitting comfort clothes at month 7 so this is what you were confined to.

"Schatz?"

Kurt said softly, moving over to you as he placed a gentle hand on your back.

You stopped bouncing and looking up at him with an exhausted face.

"How are you feeling?"

"My back hurts... everything hurts.. Im a pregnant elephant and I smell like milk"

You put your face back into the mattress and grumbled.

"Here let me rub.. And Nein, you dont- well you do smell like milk but its nice milk, nor are you a pregnant elephant- infact you ar-"

"Call me beautiful and I'll hit you with a pillow"

Kurt chuckled softly as he took a kneee next to you, his eyes soft as he softly rubbed your lower back.

"Well you are, fact is your face in the bedding is what led us here"

He joked as he continued to rub your back, you letting out even snorting a bit of a laugh.

"Don't even think about it fuzzy butt.. We cant even get the first one out on time- dont even think of another one"

"Ja well, a man can dream. Especially with a wife like you.. You have done so much (Y/N), there is nothing I can truly say or do to show you how much I appreciate all you have done and been through"

Turning your face from the mattress you look to Kurt, who looked at you with so much love it was almost like a movie. Your bottom lip beginning to shake as immediately you started to sob.

"Ive got you Ive got you"

Kurt said softly as he softly brought you to his arms while you stayed on the yoga ball. You sobbing hysterically against him, both from being uncomfortable and greatful for your husband who was kissing your cheeks to sooth you.

Kurt gently moved you to the bed, it had been a disaster to get you comfortable but Kurt had always done his bed.

Carefully moving the pillows around you, listening to your instructions of were to place them. Before he had you tucked in with pillows as you gave a soft sigh.

"Better?"

"Yeah... I actually feel kinda okay.."*

You hum softly, a ghost of a smile on your lips. Before you wince and give a soft groan.

"Back still hurting?.."

"My back always hurts, it just sucks extra cause I cant move well"*

Kurt eyes narrowed a bit as he placed his palm over your stomach and slid it lower, feeling the tightness off muscles and a added heat.

"(Y/N)... Could it be contractions? Or very slow labor? Like the book Dr. McCoy said?"

You slowly turn your gaze to look at your husband. Your face souring like youd bitten a lemon that the devil ran his taint over.

"...Kurt I swear all that is holy- If we find out these are contractions after I get up from finally feeling comforble- Imma strangle you"

.... 30 minutes later you found out it was indeed contractions

Bonus!

You felt murderous...

Kurt could feel it as you sat in bed glaring at the wall slowly chewing on ice chips like they deserved your anger, Only moving your eyes to McCoy who you had finally acknowledged after he had been speaking to you about what he had seen after his exam of your son who had decided he wanted to take his sweet ass time coming into the world.

"It will most likely just a very slow labor and you may feel addional discomfort, now you can request a Epidural bu-"

You snatched McCoy by the fuzzy blue beard the moment that 'But attempted to leave his lips and yanked him to you which made the man give a surprised yelp.

"You listen here... I am 2 days past due and I want my Son out of me. So this is going one of two ways... You give me enough drugs till my eyes cross- Or you cut him out of me. Cause if one of those two things dont happen I will make it so you are as flat as a board between your legs"

You hissed, A stressed out giggle leaving you for some damn reason you couldn't pinpoint and feeling tears in your eyes.

"Are. We. Clear"

Kurt and McCoy eyes were as wide as saucers as they stared at you. McCoy normally a very forward and put together man opened his mouth to speak before growing quiet.

"Lets uh. Start with the epidural.. and if anything happens like dilation stalls or distress. We will do an emergency C-section"

You gave a happy sigh and let go of the good doctor as he pulled his head back quickly and rubbed his chin.

"Wonderful!"

The two blue men stare at you with worried eyes as you shifted in bed.

Scott Summers:

Stars bloom in the sky, the moon casting a beautiful glow across the front lawn. It’s cold out, every breath clouding the air from the cold. 

Scott keeps an arm around your shoulders, his body like a furnace. “How’re you doing?”

“Good,” you nod. “Tired.”

He hums in agreement, tugging you closer. Somewhere in the house, a cacophony of voices have started a countdown. 

“10, 9, 8…”

You look at Scott, smiling softly. “Any last words?”

“6, 5, 4…”

He cups your face. “I love you.”

“2, 1.”

Noise roars in your ears as Scott pulls you in for a kiss, his hand slipping down to your waist to support you. He leans you down, tilting your body until you’re almost parallel with the ground. 

Fireworks erupt in the sky, the brilliant colours painting Scott’s face into a rainbow. 

He pulls you back upright. “Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

You kiss him one last time. “Happy New Year, Scott.”

Logan Howlett:

“Logan?” You call, peaking your head down the hall. “Has anyone seen Logan?”

Scott shrugs, going back to his conversation with Jean. 

Mutants group the halls, drinking out of solo cups and laughing loudly through their conversations. You make your way down the hall, calling out for your long lost partner. 

“Logan?” You shout again. 

You turn a corner, headed down the stairs and to the kitchen. Kitty and Bobby chat lively in a quiet corner of the kitchen, the man freezing the bottom of her cup. 

You open your mouth to speak as you enter the kitchen only to bump straight into the man. He catches you in his arms, the smell of beer heavy on his breath. 

“Hey, doll.”

“Hey,” you breathe, looking up at him. “It’s almost midnight, you’re gonna miss the countdown.”

He sips his bottle of beer with his freehand. “Y’know, I thought we could skip it tonight.”

“Skip it? And do what?”

He grins wickedly, leaning in to press his lips against yours. His lips move to hover over your ear, whispering filth to you. 

Heat bubbles beneath your skin. “Y-yeah,” you stutter out. “That works too.” 

Remy LeBeau:

Remy sings quietly to the music playing from the speakers down stairs, swaying with you in his arms. One of his hands is flattened against the small of your back, the other clutching his beer rests against your shoulder. 

You lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart beating. The cold night is washed away from the warmth seeping from under his band t-shirt. 

“What do you want out of the new year, Remy?”

He thinks for a moment, eyes glowing with something you don’t quite catch. “This,” he says finally.

You tilt your head, looking up at him in confusion. 

“You, me,” he sighs contentedly, “doing what we do, toujours.”

“I want that too.”

“Yeah?” He presses a hand beneath your chin, tilting your head up to kiss you. 

He tastes like beer and your chapstick that remains from earlier. He keeps swaying while he kisses you, an easy rhythm between the two of you. 

“Mhm, I love you.”

He kisses your temple, “je t’aime aussi.”

Kurt Wagner:

The world is quiet around you, the night stilled and cold. The flower field Kurt had teleported you to sways with the gentle night breeze, the leaves whispering stories to you. 

His head lays in your lap, your fingers tangled in your hair. He points out stars to you, rambling about the stories behind them and how he wishes he could go there. 

You risk a glance down at his watch, eyes widening when you see the time. 1:03am. 

“Kurt,” you say softly.

“Yes, my love?”

“Happy New Year.”

His eyes widening, he scrambles to check his watch. A smile pulls at his lips when he sees what time it is. 

You tilt your head down, lips finding his in the moonlight. He tastes sweet, like the strawberry wine you’d been drinking earlier in the night. 

He flashes you a toothy grin when you pull away. “Happy New Year.”

Wade Wilson:

The club is crowded with people, thrumming bass ringing in your ears. The screen behind the dj is filled with a countdown, bright colours swirling as the countdown dips below a minute.

Wade’s hands are glued to your hips while you swing to the music, grinding against him.  

The countdown hits 30 seconds. He spins you around to face him. 

“Hey, sexy,” he grins, pulling you til you’re flush against him. 

“Heyy.”

“You think the rapture is finally here?”

“We’d never be that lucky.”

15 seconds, the roar of the crowd overtakes the music. 

“So if there isn’t a rapture,” he quirks a nonexistent eyebrow, “you planning on sticking around this year?”

“If you behave yourself.”

He gasps, feigning hurt. 

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1!”

The crowd erupts into cheers and kissing couples, bodies all over the floor pressing together. 

“Wade,” you frown, “you haven’t kissed me since last year.”

Wade grins ear to ear. “C’mere, beautiful.”

He dips you low, leaning down and smashing his lips against yours. His tongue grazes the back of your teeth, strong arms keeping you upright when the world falls away. 

“Happy New Year, Wade.”

“Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

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