Life for Kurt as of recently has been...tough, to say the least. And now he's being accused of assassinating several anti-Krakoan heads of state, a crime he claims he didn't commit. It wasn't him. Or at least, he wasn't him. Wasn't in his right mind.

All the while, he's had to stand up for his entire genotype over and over and it's proven to be increasingly taxing for him. It's hard enough trying to carry the weight of a whole species when it's exhausting just being a good person.

He hasn't mustered the courage to admit it yet, but you could say he's been distracting himself with...frivolities. Punching muggers. Fighting ridiculous villains. One-liners. And now an entanglement with a sharpshooter, leading a team of mercenaries, hired to locate and capture him.

This isn't your first rodeo. Kurt's fought you before, he knows what you're capable of. Outside of being Nightcrawler, he is merely a velvety blue himbo with a remarkably prehensile tail, a seemingly easy target. But handing him over to Vulture for the considerable sum you're used to turned out to be more challenging than expected. And he certainly isn't complaining.

He spent his life sacrificing for his people, spilled his blood, lost his soul, and why? A genetic quirk. A fatuous distinction between sentient beings that has caused more horror than any heart can bear. He's lived and died for a war mutantkind didn't start and declined to win. All it got him was alone. Bloody-handed. Heartbroken. A tribe of one.

He deserves to stop. To go with the flow, chat, flirt, and bamf you and him off to some rooftop with dinner prepared for a third date under the stars. Yes, third. You're clearly a long way from just having fun.

Kurt sighs, breaking away from you and resting against the pillows. The large blanket slides down his frame, as he lifts his glass of champagne. "You do know we can't keep doing this, ja...?" And yet, he has no intention of stopping.

"I'm serious." He pauses. "Momentarily earnest. I mean—mein gott, aren't you even tempted?"