Summary: Kuras is sick. Not just physically. Kuras doesn't want to be sick. Kuras trusts you.
“Kuras, you're… hot.”
“Oh? Why, thank you for the compliment,” the man replied, turning with a mischievous smile. “May I inquire as to what—”
You lifted yourself slightly and pressed the back of your hand to his forehead. “Not that,” you said, shaking your head. "Feverish?"
Kuras blinked, genuinely taken aback. "My body temperature is usually higher than most—" he began, only for you to cut him off again.
"You definitely have a fever." The tall man went quiet.
You immediately rushed to the front of the clinic. Kuras didn’t comment, just leaned against the wall with lidded eyes. His head met the cold surface—a small mercy on his burning skin, making him shiver—and he felt dizzy and weak all too suddenly.
Humanity is impenetrable, defiant, and loud. It will stop at nothing unless it seizes what it wants, no matter the ruin. It’s inherently foolish, naive, and so self-destructive, the cycle feels almost ritualistic.
Kuras knew all that, and still chose them over his divine right. And how ignorant, how foolish he too was to believe he could merely be an observer to the chaos his love stirred. Diving in the ocean didn’t mean he never had to come up for air—either that or he would drown. Watching you scurry around cleaning up, he knew exactly where his body stood. It was impossible for his soul not to follow.
His hand slipped into his pocket. Pills. He was a doctor; he should know the dosage by heart. But his thoughts were sluggish, his head pounding too heavily for clarity. So he simply swallowed a handful at once, hoping you wouldn’t notice.
He stayed like that for a moment before you tugged gently at his arm. It was after maybe the third or fourth time he heard you call his name.
“Come on,” you murmured. “Let's get you a bath.”
You guided him toward the bathroom, his steps uneven, balance completely unreliable. He tried to straighten himself, to pretend he didn’t need the support, but every time his knees faltered, your hand tightened around his arm, steadying him before he could sway.
“Sit,” you instructed gently.
Kuras obeyed with a faint scowl of pride, sinking onto the edge of the tub. His breaths were shallow, heat rolling off him in waves felt even by the dove helping him around, usual composure slipping away with every shaky exhale.
The latter turned on the water—cool—letting it rise before returning to him. “I’m going to help you undress,” you said quietly. “I won’t look. Just… let me help.”
He gave the smallest exhausted nod.
You worked slowly, carefully, keeping your gaze fixed pointedly at the tiled wall, at the faucet, at anything other than him; him and the sleeves you peeled away from his overheated skin, buttons that wouldn’t come off, layers too complicated you just wanted to rip them all off and be done with it
When he was finally down to nothing, you helped him into the tub. He almost slipped, and you had to hold both of his arms just to guide him down safely… but his muscles kept giving out before he even noticed they were failing. You knelt at the edge and tried to keep him propped up, but he was tall and heavy and fever-drunk, and no amount of gentle repositioning was enough.
“Kuras—Kuras, you’re falling,” you muttered, alarm rising.
He let out a faint sound—an apology, or just the ghost of one—and his head dropped forward.
Kuras had birthed civilisations out of empty hands, made himself water for them to dig themselves roots, until they kept violently ripping them out. He had been waiting—for a miracle, a dawn, something or someone to become something he could shape into the melodies only the heavens knew, and the ones he wanted to give to the world.
He hated that. He was an angel, damn it—not a creature meant to be undone by human frailty. Yet humanity had taken root in his chest, turning him into an oversized infant with the immune system to match. He never thought it possible—never considered love and death being the same coin he held. And you were there, washing his mistakes away without a second thought.
Kuras slumped against you. You sighed—shoes, clothes and dignity all went straight into the tub with you as you slid in beside him, wrapping an arm around his back to keep him from slipping under. The water soaked instantly through everything you wore, cold fabric clinging to your skin, but at least he was safe.
“You really are helpless like this,” you whispered, more fond than frustrated. He nuzzled deeper against your shoulder and you held him there—soaked, uncomfortable, but refusing to let him drift.
You got him out of the bath as carefully as you’d gotten him in—slow movements and more than a little maneuvering to keep him from slipping. He leaned on you heavily, his damp hair brushing your cheek every time he swayed.
“Almost there,” you murmured, guiding him toward the bedroom. “Just sit for a moment.”
Kuras obeyed with dull compliance, having no strength left to argue. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders bowed, wet strands of hair clinging to his temples and falling in front of his eyes. You draped a towel around him and made sure he wasn’t about to topple over before stepping toward his wardrobe.
“Stay right there,” you said softly. “I’m just grabbing something dry.”
You rifled through his clothes, pulling out the softest clothes you could find; one pair for you and one for him—he can forgive you, you hope. Your own clung uncomfortably cold against your skin, dripping onto the floor. His clothes smelled like him—a little like old books and coffee. You were just smoothing them down your body when you turned back around.
Kuras had tipped sideways, half-sprawled across the bed with his damp hair fanned over the pillow, one arm twisted awkwardly under him. His towel had slipped off his shoulders, leaving his skin scattered with droplets of water that shone faintly in the dim light.
Kuras is not a god. He is mortal, flawed, destructive. The divinity he once held has been bleeding out of him long now. As if the sky he betrayed came back for him in the most violent way it knew how.
Kuras still didn’t believe he deserved it.
Before you could help him adjust, a hand caught yours. His fingers curled around yours—not tightly, just insistently—and he tugged.
“Kuras—”
You barely had time to brace before he pulled you down onto the bed with him. You landed beside him with a soft thump, his arm sliding around your waist as if this had been the position he’d been hunting for all along. His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, the heat of him blooming against your skin.
“You’re… warm,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion. Warm like life.
The irony made something twist in your chest. He was burning up, and you were only warm compared to the cold air. Still, you shifted just enough to get your arm around him, keeping him from rolling off the bed or tangling himself further. His hand draped across your ribs, fingers splayed like he needed the contact to anchor himself.
“Kuras,” you whispered. “You need to rest.”
He hummed in response, already drifting, his breath feathering your throat. His grip loosened, body relaxing fully against you. You exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of wet hair from his face.
You think you are mortal—human. Kuras can never see you as something less than his salvation.
Headcanons for a Touchstarved MC who is poly and seems open to all of them:
Ais
Ais is not the jealous type—he thrives in situations where he has to fight for someone’s attention. In fact, the idea that you’re open to all of them makes this so much more fun for him.
At first, he smirks. Of course, you’re interested in everyone. You’ve got good taste. Deep down, he’s amused but also watching closely. Are you seriously considering all of them, or are you just entertaining the idea?
He gets bolder—leans in more, throws out suggestive comments just to gauge your reaction. If you flirt back? Oh, it’s on. Casually sizing up the others, he makes just enough provocative remarks to stir the pot. Guess I’ll have to work harder to keep your attention, huh? He treats it like a game—one he plans on winning.
Leander
Leander loves connection, and he’s open-minded, but… let’s be honest—he’s used to being the person someone wants. The idea that he’s one of many? That’s new.
At first, he laughs, wide and genuine. All of us? Really? He finds it endearing. He brushes it off like it doesn’t bother him, but deep down? There’s a tiny spark of possessiveness. He wants to be special to you.
He doubles down on the charm. Extra flirty, extra affectionate—pulls you close and whispers, But I’m your favorite, right? Surprisingly accommodating, if you really want all of them, he’ll go along with it. He just needs to make sure he’s still your first choice. He teases Ais and the others just to stir up tension.
Vere
Vere lives to be desired. But shared? That’s an entirely different matter.
At first, he gives a slow, sharp smile. How greedy of you. He doesn’t mind the idea—but he does mind not being the one who has the most of your attention.
Immediately, he starts testing you. If you flirt with someone else, he’ll slide up beside you and whisper something dangerous enough to make your pulse jump. He loves watching the others react—if they get possessive, he eats it up. If they don’t care, he’ll make them care. He acts nonchalant, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze. If he ever feels like he’s just one of many without something special between you, he’ll pull back.
Mhin
Mhin already struggles with trust and attachment—this only makes it worse.
At first, they scoff and roll their eyes. Figures. Their mind jumps straight to the worst conclusions. Do you actually care about any of them? Or is this just a game to you?
Immediately, they pull away. If they were starting to open up to you, this would make them slam their walls back up. But if they believe you genuinely care about all of them, that you’re not just playing with their feelings, then it terrifies them how much they want to trust you. They’ll be the last to accept it—but once they do, they won’t fight for your attention. They’ll just… wait. If you want them, you’ll have to come to them.
Kuras
Kuras is the least affected by the revelation. If anything, he finds it intriguing.
At first, he gives a calm, thoughtful look. Is that so? No judgment, just observation. He has seen many kinds of relationships before. This does not surprise him. But why do you want this? That’s the question he’s interested in.
He doesn’t react outwardly, but there’s a softness in his gaze when he looks at you. He won’t compete for your affection, but he will make it known that if you truly want him, he is here. He is patient. Watching how the others handle it with mild amusement, he seems as if he’s observing something inevitable.
Would they all be okay with it? Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing is for sure: the tension would be unreal.
"Doctor . . . Have you ever made an unfixable mistake with good intentions?" This meekly spoken question makes him freeze. Shoulders squared up and tense as he mulls over it for a brief second. He's taken care of many patients in his long monotonous life but not many are interested in his personal life. If any at all. Yet the mere question shakes him. It shouldn't, he knows you mean no harm. Yet his calm and collected demeanour instantly turning sour, bitter and cold. The bandage needed to wrap up your wounds, is clutch tightly within his grasps before his hold on them softens. He sighs his frustration away before turning away from the cabinet. Turning to see you.
And when he faces you, there is no trace of this hidden emotion in sight. None at all. So, you are none the wiser to what storm you have brewed up inside his head. "Now why would you ask such a question hmm?" He murmurs, matching the volume of your voice. A soft whisper like sound that makes this conversation feel more intimate than it really is. Like the two of you are strangers tucked under a bridge together. Huddled up against one another for warmth as you wait out the rain raging on outside. The mere thought flustering you a little.
Noticing your shy gaze upon him. His sunset kissed eyes wrinkled up into a soft smile as he makes his way back to you on the bed. "I just . . . I thought I was doing the right thing. What was expected of me but I . . ." "Just made a mess of things?" He continues for you when you trail off with a knowing look in his eyes. His smile grows bigger and more comforting. "I have certainly found myself within these types of situations, after all I am no angel." His eyes dart away at that last bit but find themselves gazing back into yours again. You laugh quietly, "many would disagree with that statem-" "But that mistake matters not now. In truth none of our mistakes are unatonable." He speaks as he skilfully but with haste begins to bandage the mysterious gash on your arm. Eyes foggy as if recounting a faraway memory so you dare not interrupt him. "A rash and ignorant move in a tumultuous situation is not uncommon, but what you decide to do moving forward has far greater importance than what rotten seed you have sowed in the past." With that being said, the conversation is over. The doctor and yourself now both lost in thought.
ADHD got me again so I’m making these with Kuras… my girlfriend my wife my beloved…
His eyes and the golden tear marks glow in the dark
Sex repulsed aroace (projecting)
Enjoys bitter rich scents
Wears outfits with long dresses/skirts on some of the rare occasions he’s off-work
Accompanies Mhin to pastry shops and gets the strongest coffee to just put on his desk and enjoy the aroma
Leander showed him coffee-scented candles and since then Kuras has been the number 1 customer
Non-binary (projecting)
His culinary range consists solely of things you can make only by chopping things up (dry veggie/fruit salads or sandwiches)
Has studied alchemy for centuries and watched humans develop it, finds the progress in knowledge fascinating
Omniglot, knows every language, including dead languages
Talks to Ais in many languages and helps him learn new ones in exchange for the help at the clinic
Finds comfort in cold things during the summer, he doesn’t necessarily feel a discomfort with the summer weather but cold objects are nice to the touch in such conditions
Gets a little sentimental whenever he patches Leander up
Enjoys violin music, can probably play it too
Drew the anatomy illustrations that hang on the walls in the clinic
Autistic (projecting)
Is always very warm, he doesn’t even need winter clothes because his body temperature Never changes
Really likes orchestral music
Mhin tells him about the stray cats they feed, Kuras is very invested and knows all of the cats by their names
Animals absolutely adore him, so do kids, and everyone (but Vere) really, Kuras just naturally leaves a good impression
“You are… singular,” Kuras whispers, like a prayer in the clinic room made dull by the memory of something brighter. The vision of him—whatever he was—to call him a monster feels like an insult to the dread, to name him a saint…
His gaze remains fixed in your exposed hand, reaching toward it as if moved by instinct rather than thought. You are used to others recoiling in horror at such a sight, but the awe in Kuras's eyes is new. Dizzying and almost unbearably tethering longing.
You stretch out your trembling fingers toward his. “Touch me again. Please.” The words that escape sound mad—are mad—and unhinged even to you.
You don't take them back, don’t regret them, and don't retreat.
Kuras wants to. Desperately. Tension locks him in place, drawn taut as a bowstring.
He hesitates.
You don’t.
You catch his hand before he can fully withdraw. If you don’t fracture the moment, the memory won’t scar—and if it doesn’t, you might still be able to believe it was only a dream. A beautiful, brutal dream, bristling with thorns around your blooming heart.
Defiant little thing, the heart.
It carries you straight into danger’s open arms, folding you against his ribs with your eyes squeezed shut. You feel his shaky breath, his warmth, the fragile evidence that he is real.
But you don’t look.
You don’t dare.
Your breath ghosts the hollow between his collarbone and throat, and the room exhales with you.
For one terrible, suspended moment, he doesn’t move. Then his hand tightens in yours. Not one that traps—never that—but a hold like he’s anchoring himself as if you’re the only real, holy thing in the room.
You feel the tremor run through him, the uncertainty, the need. His forehead tips forward until it almost touches your hair.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Kuras murmurs, barely a sound. “I want to…” He slowly reaches his other hand around your cheek, guiding your closed eyes up.
“If it scars,” he whispers, and he almost sounds afraid, “let it be on me.”
For a heartbeat, he nearly stops himself.
Then he leans in.
The kiss is just as hesitant—barely there at first, more breath than touch—like he is asking permission with every fraction of a second. Something softer and far more dangerous than hunger sighs between you; relief.
“Look at me again,” Kuras whispers, hand trembling where it rests before he dives in again, pressing further into you. “Please.”
He could very easily command it, force you to open your eyes without a second thought, but he doesn't. He begs. He softens and melts like butter against you, like this is worth everything he ever chased, conquered, or sacrificed in his life.
You don't—not yet—but your other hand flies Kuras's coat anyway, caught between pulling him closer and pushing him away, and he shudders.
His love—his need—comes so suddenly it becomes overwhelming. You step back just to breathe, but he doesn’t let the distance live. Kuras’s free hand finds the small of your back, guiding you.
The back of his desk meets your back and steals the choice from you, forcing you to brace yourself against it.
Kuras pulls away for the smallest of moments. You can hear his fingers finding the hidden catches beneath the decorative straps, moving from habit rather than thought, tearing open the central clasps, and the belts coming loose in a rush of sound as he pulls himself free.
Your breath turns shallow, barely existing anywhere outside the space between you, tangled with his, lost in the quiet where neither of you remembers how to retreat.
He takes your hand and places your knuckles against his forehead, murmuring something incoherent; a prayer or a plea or both. Then, he trails it down his neck, collarbone, and finally on his chest—his heartbeat thundering right below the hot skin.
“Nobody else will do,” he whispers, voice barely audible over the steady rhythm under your fingertips. “Only you.”
His lips meet your neck softly, hands leaving yours completely, focusing on slowly taking off your clothes with a tenderness that belies the urgency in his touch. He leaves you every chance to push him back if you want to, but you can’t—won’t.
Kuras lifts you up on the wooden surface effortlessly. His thigh parts your legs as he presses his body against yours, carefully aligning himself with you. Your eyes fly open and lock with his; he barely holds your gaze, like he's afraid of what he might see in your eyes… or what you might see reflected in his.
A flash of light momentarily consumes you, and your vision blurs before feathers flutter around you, cascading down the Monster's body, seemingly settling around you both like a protective shield.
You’re naked beyond your body; your soul is on fire, and the flame is dancing in Kuras’s hands. It knows you, your secrets, your dreams, your sins. Does it feed off of them? Or has his own misery left him so overwhelmingly full his plate only knows apathy when it comes to his nature?
“You’re everything,” Kuras makes a sound at the back of his throat—human, somewhere behind the vision your eyes see and your body feels—half a whimper, half a sob.
His thrusts are almost shy in the loudness of the room, as if he fears breaking you. But you want to be broken, shattered into a million pieces that only he can put back together. You want to be remade in his image, to let his power consume you completely until there is nothing left but him, and to then be reborn as something new and unrecognizable.
You have been nothing, and suddenly your curse nudges a thorn in his heart you won’t draw out. You want him to burn for you, if not for himself. It feels only right, if truly you are—
Your back arches against him, and from the sides of your vision, you see his form ripple and shift. You shift your hips so they press up against his, taking him in deeper and wrap your thighs around his waist. You’re not sure where your hands are, but you feel them reaching out to him.
One of his hands finds and intertwines with yours; bright golden claws and cuffs decorate his hands and wrist, the other grips your body like you might vanish or run away from him. You nestle your other hand into his hair, pulling lightly and guiding him down onto you—a gnawing feeling settles in your gut as the helmeted flame brushes against your skin, vanishing immediately upon the familiar taste.
His lips travel everywhere; you can feel him biting and sucking and burning your skin.
And now your hands—
You rip them away.
Isn’t that what he wanted? To walk amongst humans, to love and bleed like them, to be one of them. Kuras looks down at you with eyes that are no longer his own, as if the human he never was has finally been shed.
His lips open in quiet surrender. His body tenses, pleasure rippling through him, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in deeply, hands trembling against your skin, fingers gripping you tightly as if trying to hold onto the moment forever.
Headcanons about how the LIs would kiss the MC for the first time? Definitely not ideas to draw-
oMG— HI HI HIIIIIIIIIII 🙋♂️🙇♂️ *exploads*
𝓐𝓲𝓼
✩ Probably happens in a dimly lit, secluded part of Eridia—perhaps an alleyway where the air is thick with the pungent stench of rotting garbage and decay. The narrow space between the crumbling buildings offers a rare moment of solitude in that God-forgotten city.
✩ Ais's eyes, usually sharp and alert, soften as they linger on the MC.
✩ In his defense, emotions were running H I G H. It's not his fault they were right there, looking so beautiful and absolutely enticing.
✩ His gaze remains locked on theirs, searching for something—maybe permission, maybe a sign that they feel the same pull that he does. When he finds it, his resolve seems to crumble, just a little.
✩ With a deep breath, as if steeling himself, Ais reaches out. His hand, usually so steady and sure, hovers for a moment before finally brushing against the MC’s cheek. The touch is surprisingly gentle.
✩ Yeah, the consequences could wait
✩ The kiss is slow at first, almost tentative, as if he’s testing the waters, unsure of how far he can go. But when the MC responds, the kiss deepens, becoming more intense.
There’s a rawness to it, an urgency that leaves them both breathless.
✩ Ais’s other hand comes up to cradle the back of the MC’s head, pulling them closer as if afraid they might slip away. The world around them—the decay, the danger, the darkness—melts away, leaving just the two of them, lost in the moment.
✩ When they finally pull apart, Ais’s breath is ragged, his forehead resting against the MC’s as he struggles to regain control. His eyes, once so unreadable, now shimmer with a vulnerability he’s never shown before.
✩ “Don’t make me regret this,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, a plea wrapped in a warning.
𝓚𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓼
✞ The bitch /affectionately has been dropping shameless hints the moment he met them the very same day
✞ It is a wall. A very nice wall, if he has a say. He's the type to trap them between a rock and a... hard place [you guess which is which]
✞ "Well, he looks at me and I look at him And he looks at me and I look at him And he looks at me and I look at him" And it goes like that for a few agonising long moments. Mfr is like :3
✞ His expression is gentle, but there’s a depth of emotion there that he hasn’t fully expressed before. Eventually, mister giraffe leans down for a long peak. There’s no rush, giving the MC all the time in the world to decide if that is what they want.
✞ He kisses them with a kind of reverence, as if they’re something precious, something to be cherished.
✞ Oh, don't get me STARTED ON THE HAND PLACEMENT
✞ One hand on the small of their back, firm yet gentle, guiding them closer to him. The other hand tangled in their hair, fingers softly caressing the back of their neck.
✞ When they eventually pull apart, Kuras’s eyes remain closed for a moment longer, as if savoring the feeling, the memory of their lips on his. He smiles, but it’s tinged with a kind of sadness.
✞ Next moment, he's holding them tight against his chest, allowing them to feel the steady beat of his heart.
✞ “Thank you”
𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻
🗡 Takes place in The Wet Wick, buzzing with its usual crowd—a mix of unsavory characters, mercenaries, and those looking to drown their troubles in strong drink.
🗡 Leander leans in his chair, his posture relaxed. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his glass, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
🗡 “You know, I can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose,” his words, like always, are laced with that effortless charm.
🗡 Leander watches them for a moment longer, then, with a slow, deliberate movement, reaches out. His fingers lightly graze the back of the MC’s hand, sending a shiver up their arm. Leander’s touch is warm, and his lips even more so as places a soft kiss upon the bare knuckles, emerald eyes gleaming with adoration.
🗡 He then moves their hand to cup his cheek, leaning in...
🗡 The kiss is everything the MC might have expected from him—confident, intense, and undeniably passionate. His lips move against theirs with a kind of practiced ease, as if he’s done this a thousand times before.
🗡 His hand comes up to the small of their back, pulling them closer, his body pressing against theirs.
🗡 When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. His eyes are darker now, filled with something deeper.
🗡 He gives a small chuckle, though it’s softer, more vulnerable. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this”
𝓜𝓱𝓲𝓷
🕊 rOOFTOP KISS
The night sky is overcast, casting a muted gray glow over the city. A cool breeze rustles the MC’s clothes as they sit beside Mhin, both of them watching the distant lights flicker across the chaotic city below. The two of them sit in silence, a silence that’s not uncomfortable but rather familiar.
🕊 Mhin's shoulders are slightly less tense, their gaze lingers on the horizon rather than avoiding eye contact. They mightt be on the edge of letting something slip through the cracks of their defenses.
🕊 “Why are you still here? With me?” It’s a question born of clear curiosity, neither insecurity nor doubt.
They turn to face the MC, their heart beating a little faster.
🕊 For a moment, Mhin looks like they might pull back, might retreat into themselves the way they always do. But instead, they hesitate, their breath catching slightly as they move closer.
🕊 “Because I want to be.” It’s not an elaborate answer, but it’s the truth, and Mhin values honesty above all else.
“Are you sure?” Mhin asks, their voice quieter still, almost like they’re asking themselves more than the MC.
The MC nods, their gaze steady. “Yes.”
🕊 That’s all it takes.
🕊 Mhin is the one to close the final distance between them.
🕊 The kiss is delicate, almost fragile, as though Mhin is afraid to break something—perhaps the walls they’ve built around themselves [too late for that tho---] It’s not rushed or passionate, but slow and measured, like they’re trying to make sense of it.
🕊 Mhin’s hand hovers near the MC’s cheek, as if they want to touch but aren’t sure they should.
🕊 When they finally break the kiss, Mhin pulls back slowly, their gaze searching the MC’s face for any sign of regret or hesitation. There's definately color in their cheeks.
𝓥𝓮𝓻𝓮
✦ The alleyway behind The Wet Wick, where the flickering light from the tavern barely reaches. It's late, the streets mostly empty except for the occasional passerby, and the two of them have just slipped out of sight, away from the bustling noise of the tavern.
✦ “You really should be more careful around me, you know,” Vere says, his voice low and lilting, dripping with mock concern.
✦ He steps closer, his movements smooth, almost predatory, like a cat toying with its prey. He tilts his head slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes as he closes the gap between them.
✦ His hand moves to brush lightly against the MC’s arm, the touch barely there, more of a tease than a real caress. It's intoxicating, his scent a mix of something sweet and dangerous, like poisoned honey.
✦ They can’t tell if he’s about to kiss them or kill them—and that’s exactly how Vere likes it.
✦ His lips are soft, but there’s a dangerous edge to the way he kisses them, his teeth grazing their bottom lip just enough to send a shiver down their spine.
✦ His hand comes up to cup the side of their neck, his fingers lightly pressing into their skin, holding them in place as he deepens the kiss.
✦ It's as much a test as a promise, a dance on the edge of something darker, something dangerous. It isn’t just about fun for him—it’s about control.
✦ When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his eyes w i d e and hungry. He lingers close, his lips still barely brushing theirs.
✦ “You’ve managed to exceed my expectations,” Vere murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with intrigue. "Kiss me like that again, and I might actually start to like you.”
This was inspired by the song Hellfire from The Hunchback of Notre Dame - can you find the references? ;)
His quarters were suffocating with incense, the concoction he’d thrown into the flames staining the air with a sweetness too sharp to ignore.
He paced before the fireplace, muttering prayers he didn’t quite believe in. The Allmother knew—she had to know. He was righteous, more righteous than anyone; untouched by the filth and weakness of mortals. He said it aloud as though repetition might scrub him clean.
The chest in the corner of the room caught his eye, its lock coated in a thin film of dust. He tore it open as if to prove something—to himself or the Allmother?—pulling free the ragged cloth at the top. Beneath it laid more garments, in different sizes and from different ages, yet perfectly preserved. A specific one was missing; his courtesy to them, of course.
The stiff-from-age cloth was worn thin in places, fraying at the edges where mud and their blood baked deep into its weave—yet to him, it was immaculate.
He should have thrown it away; should have burned it, should have washed the stain from his mind as easily as he could have from his drawer. He knew that. Yet still it lingered, folded with care.
Kuras smoothed a trembling hand over it, jaw tight and breath shallow. His pupils were blown wide in the light, looking almost feverish by his need.
He sat on the edge of his bed, shadows cutting across his face. The torn cloth shook in his hands, damp already from how hard he gripped it. Kuras shook as he lifted the fabric to his lips, kissing the dried stains where their blood had soaked through. The copper tang lingered, faint but enough, and his cock throbbed hard in response. He shuddered, clutching the cloth tight and dragging it over his lips, his cheek, breathing them in like a starving man.
He remembered the weight of their body in his arms that night—half-conscious and cold, trusting him without even knowing who he was. His dick now strained painfully against the fabric of his trousers.
“Saints preserve me,” Kuras whispered, but the plea cracked into a groan. He had stopped asking forgiveness long ago; now he only prayed to them.
He unfastened his belt, freeing himself with practiced efficiency, already dripping at the tip. One hand wrapped around his dick, stroking with agonizing restraint.
“Preserve me from them—” He rocked into his hand, and the more he imagined—their eyes wet and dazed, their body trembling under his—the more it slipped. His rhythm grew messy, breathing louder.
The walls bent under judgment. Shadows like wings, faceless jurors, eyes he couldn’t see but felt burrow into his skin. Their verdicts whispered, drowned by his own plea. “They tempt me,” he snarled, voice cracking. “Gods, how they tempt me. You sent them to test me—” His hips jerked up, precum smearing hot down his cock. “And I am failing,” a sound tore from the depths of him. “It isn’t my fault. It’s them. They… lit this fire in me. Their divinity was a curse laid on me from the start.”
And yet, when the smoke coiled upward, it shaped itself into them. Their eyes caught his, burning hotter than any sun, and he hated how it pulled him in. The eidolon swayed, a parody of a dance, his memories bending into what he wanted most but dared never touch.
“I saved you,” he whispered, voice breaking into a laugh. “Pulled you from the filth, from death itself. You were reborn in my arms. Don’t you see?” His hand tightened around his cock, stroking in rough, punishing motions. “You live because I willed it. You breathe because of me.”
Hands rose from the smoke, clutched at him, dragged him down. They touched his jaw, drag at his chest, bind his wrists in chains he cannot see, making more sounds—almost sobs—escape him. Chains rattled somewhere unseen, and golden tears burned paths down his cheeks as he dragged the rag down to his chest, then even lower, brushing his cock as it wrapped around it, and his head slammed back, mouth open in a silent cry.
“It is not my fault if the Allmother made them so beautiful,” he growled, precum slicking into their stains. “Why would you put their life in my hands if not to bind them to me? Is it sin if it’s divine will?”
He imagined it was—imagined their gasps, their whimpers, their lips parted in surrender beneath him. His cock twitched violently at the sound of his own madness, and he fucked the now damp cloth harder, rutting into their stain with reckless abandon.
His breath hitched. “You needed me. You’ve always needed me. No one else will ever touch you like this. No one else could make you—” The orgasm shook through him. He collapsed back, shaking, breath rattling as if he’d burned alive and come out reborn from the ashes.
The cloth slid from his fingers, desecrated. He bent to it again, kissing the stains where blood and cum mixed, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Or don’t. I’ll burn in your fire if it means I burn with you. We'll make a covenant no god can sever.”
Their smoky figure leaned close, lips almost touching his, before vanishing in a rush of smoke, leaving him with nothing. With a snarl, he flung the cloth into the hearth, watching it shrivel in the flames, muttering broken prayers to a god who would never answer.
He collects his past lovers' clothes, if it wasn't obvious :3
The first time he gained awareness in the cell, he couldn’t move. It was completely dark, and he lay shivering—naked in the newfound shackles choking him. He barely could open his eyes to watch his breath take shape from the cold temperature that matched the one in his… Heart? Existence debatable.
He couldn’t hear anything for minutes—hours—perhaps days. There was no taste but the salt of sweat and the occasional sting of tears shed more from disorientation than pain, unable to distinguish any of the moving shadows. His vision faltered—flickering and failing into something even more pitiful and rather pathetic than the human one. He didn’t smell much either—nose stuffy from both the air and his own weakness.
Maybe the cold—the same cold he loathed—was the only thing keeping him alive. It clung to him like a second skin, seeping into his bones, piercing through his ribs and spine. He didn’t dare move. And even if he tried, he’d be met with more cold.
The memories returned like the frost: sharp, but unfocused. There was… Snow. Definitely snow. And the researchers around camp. And the fire—
A door opened somewhere, and harsh golden light spilled in. His ears and tail twitched involuntarily as he squinted his eyes open.
He stood right there, over him. Pristine white coat gleamed, as if mocking his filth. But his eyes… They stayed cold. As cold as this room. As cold as him.
He knelt. His long fingers pressed to the other’s burning forehead, clinical and indifferent, as if he were nothing but another failed experiment. He was checking for the fever—he knew he had one. Losing divinity was never meant to be kind to the body.
After all, gods deserved to die forgotten.
He straightened, called out a confirmation to someone beyond his field of view. His figure blocked everything else—bastard wouldn’t even let him see where he was.
He didn’t look back. Not once.
The door shut behind him, and the light died with it. After everything, he couldn’t even meet his eyes. Was there shame carved into his face he didn’t want him to see? Or had he erased it long ago?
He let his head fall back against the stone floor.
