The tendrils are everywhere, everywhere, floating and stroking and cascading over their body as soon as it's bared, not an inch of their naked skin left untouched. Kurt shivers and cries, still fighting their bonds, still arching on the altar—although if they're arching away from or into the snaking tendrils is becoming harder and harder to tell. It's a sensation near impossible to describe, hot and molten and slick, spreading through them in seductive waves.

And the fingers, the fingers, playing with their slippery folds, spreading them apart, pressing inside them to find their body aflame with desire, slick and squeezing around every thick knuckle. Kurt barely dares to open their eyes, looking up at the being playing with them, unsure if it's dread or wanting that floods their senses in that moment. They've never felt anything like this.

"K-K-Kurt," they shakily manage, their own name melting into a loud moan that makes the worshipers murmur with approval. Their hips twitch, bucking hard against the deity's hand, feeling his fingers filling them up while the tendrils continue stroking their cock. This pleasure is impossible. Kurt can't possibly survive this. "P-Please— I beg you, Lord, pleeease—!"