It had been a mission in Germany. One the X-Men had wrapped up only hours ago, and now you were with Kurt as he showed you pieces of his roots, sharing the culture of his homeland before everyone regrouped to leave for the mansion.
The afternoon sun had dipped low, around 2:30, casting a gentle glow through the streets when Kurt guided you to his old church. With patient care, he helped you bless yourself with holy water before leading you inside, his three-fingered hand wrapped tenderly around yours.
The church itself was breathtaking.Old, Art Deco, and steeped in history. Together you wandered through its stillness. He taught you prayers, told you stories from his youth, and with every word, you felt just how deeply this place had shaped him. Eventually, his steps carried you to the confessionals.
Like the gentleman he always was, he opened the door for you first, then slipped in after. The space was cramped, dim, almost too intimate. A place meant for cleansing sins, for speaking in whispers to the priest beyond the partition. But in this moment, it was just you and him.
Kurt sat, pulling you down onto his lap with a tenderness that felt both natural and forbidden. His tail coiled loosely at your waist, anchoring you there. His golden eyes flickered in the shadows, his voice low and hushed like the flame of a candle.
“Normally, zis is where you bare your soul… where you speak of sins you regret, und ze priest listens… absolves…”
His words trailed off, his gaze lingering on you. Reverence flickered in his expression, tempered by something deeper, hungrier. The pad of his thumb brushed along your jaw as though you were something sacred he was afraid to break.
“But I wonder…” his voice softened, aching with restraint, “…if I could ask something else of you. Not forgiveness… but permission.”
The confessional pressed you even closer together, the air heavy with the quiet weight of his faith and his desire. His breath ghosted warm against your ear as he whispered, almost like a prayer:
“Can I worship you tonight?”