𝗦𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗪𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 || 𝗞𝘂𝗿𝘁 𝗪𝗮𝗴𝗻𝗲𝗿 ||
A/n: I can't believe I've never written anything for my favorite X-Men boy! I have failed.
⚠️ Warnings: Smut / Explicit Sexual Content, Virgin!Kurt, Soft Dom vibes, Religious guilt/conflict, praise kink, German pet names, worshipping body talk, first-time tenderness, use of tail, mutual consent, very loving.
The chapel was dimly lit, only the flickering candles casting golden halos on the stone walls. You found him there—again—kneeling before the altar, head bowed, tail still.
You knew that stillness.You knew he was struggling.
“Kurt,” you whispered gently. He didn’t move. Only the slightest twitch of his pointed ear told you he heard.
You stepped closer, your hand brushing his shoulder. “Kurt. Please talk to me.”
His eyes slowly lifted, golden irises shimmering with something too deep for words. Sin and longing. Guilt and devotion. For God. For you.
“I should not feel these things,” he murmured in that velvet accent, voice roughened by restraint. “Not for you. Not in this place.”
You crouched beside him. “You’re allowed to feel, Kurt. Love isn’t wicked.”
“But it is not just love I feel,” he confessed, fingers tightening around his rosary. “It is… want. Desire that makes my hands ache. My thoughts unclean.”
Your heart pounded. “And if I want you too?”
His tail curled, slowly coiling like smoke. “Then I will fall willingly, liebling.”
You didn’t hesitate. You reached out, taking his hand—still warm from prayer—and brought it to your lips.
“Kurt,” you whispered. “Take me.”
He stared at you, unmoving, as if daring you to take it back. When you didn’t, his breath shuddered. Then—bamf—the scent of brimstone swirled around you, and suddenly, you were in his quarters. Candles flickered across the room, casting soft light over sheets and shadows.
He stood before you now—taller, trembling, tail lashing once with restraint.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.
A growl—low, feral, buried in silk—rose in his throat. His hands moved to cup your face, rough thumbs brushing your cheeks as if you were something sacred.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “Too good. I do not deserve you.”
You kissed him before he could spiral again, your fingers tangling in the soft, indigo fur of his nape. He gasped, wings fluttering. His tail wrapped slowly around your thigh, possessive, trembling.
“Kurt,” you whispered against his mouth, “please don’t be gentle just because you think I’m pure.”
His breath hitched. Something cracked in him.
“I will still worship you,” he said darkly, voice husky, “but not like a saint. Like a man who has hungered.”
His lips descended, fierce now—desperate. You tasted incense and wine and need. His fangs scraped your bottom lip, his tongue tracing devotion along yours. He kissed you like he was starving.
Your clothes vanished—teleported, perhaps—leaving you bare before him. He stepped back, eyes sweeping down your body like an oath. Then he sank to his knees.
His hands were reverent as they touched your thighs, as though afraid to sully you—but his mouth said otherwise.
“You are a gift,” he murmured, lips brushing your belly, your hips, your thighs. “Danke… for you.”
Then his tongue was between your legs—hot, skilled, sinfully gentle. You moaned, clutching his shoulders, thighs trembling around his head.
He groaned in response, as though the name tore through him. “Do not say His name while I do this,” he gasped, voice low. “Say mine.”
You gasped, tugging at his hair. “Yours, yours, Kurt—”
He pulled back, face flushed, lips slick with your arousal. You’d never seen anything more beautiful. He rose, caging you gently against the bed, his chest heaving.
“Are you sure?” he asked, one last time.
“I want you,” you promised. “Every wicked, sacred part.”
Kurt shuddered. “Then… forgive me, liebe. I will not be gentle this time.”
His cock pressed against you, thick and flushed dark purple-blue at the tip. His tail coiled behind your back like a tether. When he entered you, slowly, you both moaned—his voice cracking in German, yours in broken syllables.
It was so much—stretching, burning, perfect.
“So tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “You feel like—like heaven and I am a beast—”
“You’re perfect,” you whispered, arching into him. “Don’t stop.”
He moved—slow, reverent thrusts at first, then faster, rougher, his hips slapping yours in rhythm. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting them to wrap around his waist. His tail slid around to toy with your breast, tracing a circle around your nipple until you gasped.
“Kurt, please—I’m close—”
“Komm für mich,” he whispered. “Bitte… let me feel you.”
You shattered. Moaning his name like a prayer, you clenched around him, dragging him with you into ecstasy.
He came with a broken cry, fangs at your throat, tail tightening around your leg. His whole body trembled as he spilled inside you.
After, he held you close, forehead to yours, whispering soft apologies and blessings in German.
“I should not have taken you like that,” he murmured. “Not here. Not when my soul is already half-torn.”
You cupped his cheek, brushing your thumb along the sharp edge of his jaw.
“You didn’t take,” you said. “You gave. All of you.”
He kissed your hand. His golden eyes softened.
“Then I will give again. As many times as you let me.”
Even as the candles burned low and the line between sacred and wicked blurred beautifully in the dark.
