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Destruction cannot cradle life, yet the Aeon of that Path does not accept this verdict.
Within the mysterious Path Space, a domain that embodies both the narrow passage of fate and the cosmic infinity of space, a winged creature’s mismatched wings flutter, tended with relentless devotion by his Aeon within a cloud-like nest. The soft platform of unknown material is suspended within the eerie groundless expanse, cosmic dust and nebulas swirling beyond. Within the silence, there is only the wet sound of water, and the sweet voice of the winged creature, rising and falling.
Time has no meaning in this place.
Khaslana doesn’t know how long he has been here, his touch deprived body lavished with carnal heat and sensation, filled and surrounded by lush golden warmth—the energy of Destruction.
A large hand splays over the obscene sigil below Khaslana’s navel, a mark of ownership proclaiming to whom the receptive chamber belongs, a brand of utmost humiliation. Fingers press down, feeling the fullness of Khaslana’s womb, brimming with his Aeon’s seed after being devotedly bred for an indeterminate amount of time. Activated by the owner’s touch, the pink mark glows gently, stimulating the organ beneath. The womb heats with need, becoming so sensitive that he can feel the hot slosh of thick white fluid, slopping against the fleshy interior with every thrust. He whines, hips twisting to get away, muscles straining as he tries to pull Nanook’s hand away.
It’s futile; he can’t do anything but take what he is given. Nanook is implacable, and Khaslana’s body has long betrayed him. His eager pussy clings ingratiatingly to the plunderer, hungrily sucking and swallowing the massive length, and desire gushes between his thighs, clear fluid flowing continuously from where their bodies are joined.
“No… No more…”
As the many times before, Khaslana’s protests are ignored. With a powerful thrust, he is penetrated to the deepest point where the guarding ring of muscle has been pummeled into pliant submission, allowing the violator to nestle into the little mouth. Docked into place, the moist chamber is inundated with the Aeon’s generous gift, irrigated with thick, liquid heat until it brims over, spilling down strong thighs.
Nurtured with the sustenance it desires, the mark pulses with satisfaction, rewarding the resistant vessel with unwanted ecstasy, and Khaslana quakes through another climax, whimpering in his throat because he knows it’s not the end. At the deepest point where they are connected, the pure energy of Destruction floods into him, concentrated in the place below the mark and spreading out from his core, an indescribable, unbearable sensation that lights up his every nerve, extending the orgasm interminably. Khaslana’s head slams back, teary eyes dazed and mouth hanging open as he convulses with pleasure, wings thrashing as if in his dying throes.
When he finally comes down from the high, Khaslana collapses onto the cushioning surface. A few gasps of air, and the other person starts moving again. Groaning in frustrated despair, Khaslana hits Nanook’s chest with his fists, lacking the strength for greater resistance. “Just give up already, you impotent bastard!”
Nanook looks down at him, impassive. When Khaslana’s struggles more fiercely, Nanook simply shifts Their grip on his thighs, changing the angle so that huge, hot thing rubs over every sensitive spot inside, and steadily pounds into his cervix until his waist has gone weak, his limbs turned to liquid. “Ah… ah…”
No… why… why is it so good…
Khaslana can only endure the pleasure. He doesn’t even have the mercy of passing out because of this lunatic infusing him with the energy of Destruction through his womb every time They come inside him. Sustained wholly on Aeonic power, Khaslana doesn’t need food or rest, forced into a state of eternal ignition.
Cognizant of the Aeon’s insane goal, Khaslana expects Nanook to treat him as a mere container for Their—well. Anyways, he certainly feels like one at this point, but Nanook doesn’t do as expected. The broad hands move to caress and hold, not allowing Khaslana’s mind to drift away, tending him with a devotion that borders on sacrilegious; the god worshipping the unwilling devotee.
Heart filled with frustration, Khaslana grabs the white braids, yanking hard. “It’s impossible… ah…mn! You…You crazy fucking fool.”
Despite saying that, Khaslana isn’t entirely sure it is. The foul sigil branding his womb is meant to transform the barren place into a fertile seedbed. Wrought by Destruction, this wouldn’t have the desired effect on anyone… except Khaslana.
Because Khaslana was created as a vessel of Destruction. Anyone else would already have been destroyed by the blaze of Nanook’s pure energy, but Khaslana was made for this, his body soaking up every blessing bestowed upon him by his Aeon.
The brand over his womb acts in faithful cooperation with its master, making his body flush with ardent desire, pale skin tinged with a seductively rosy hue. It’s not the only unfortunate effect. The more his pussy is pounded, the more lustful and sensitive it becomes. With continued stimulation, the soft, warm hole constantly secretes liquid, making the penetration even smoother…
“Ah… hm…”
Drool trails from Khaslana’s parted lips, his eyes misty as his lower body is ravaged, fucked to orgasm after orgasm. When his thighs are pushed up, nearly folded in half, his whole body shivers in anticipation of being seeded. In a single motion, Nanook buries himself deep, a heavy stream of liquid heat striking the sensitive inner wall of the womb. The ejaculation is so powerful and copious that Khaslana instinctively squirms, trying to escape the intense sensation, but he has nowhere to go, kept in place for the breeding by an immovable grip, pinned at the deepest place by the stimulating pressure of the tapered cockhead. The mark on his pelvis throbs in reaction to being intensely ejaculated, and Khaslana’s entire body flares hot, arching and climaxing just from being cummed inside. He doesn’t even get the chance to come down from the peak before that place is subsequently inundated with the potent energy of Destruction.
Every time is like this, feeling as if he is simultaneously soaring and dying. Under the continuous, determined assault, Khaslana’s rationality gradually slips away, his senses overwhelmed, intoxicated with obscene pleasure.
**
Within the Path Space, a heavy scent hangs in the air, the harsh purity of Destruction intermingled with the thick musk of sordid decadence. Having been moved a few times, Khaslana is on his back again, staring up at the starry sky. Soft sounds occasionally escape his throat, the only other noise in the space the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. Through the intense coupling, the person above him remains silent.
How long has he been here?
Held in this mysterious place, drowning in unending, inhuman pleasure with only the sound of his own voice, Khaslana’s muddled mind begins to have doubts, teetering on delirium. In the mire of thirty-three million lifetimes, he has often had hallucinations, illusions blurring with reality.
Is this a dream? A hallucination?
“Is this… real?” he asks, soft and forlorn, his mind unmoored.
No amount of shouting, insults, hitting, or stabbing had any effect on Nanook. But on hearing this quiet distress, barely more than a whisper, the Aeon’s motions slow. Bending low, Nanook kisses Khaslana, tongue pushing into the slack mouth.
Khaslana shivers, tightening around Nanook, his wings fluttering. It’s this that undoes him, the act more intimate than the carnal connection of their bodies below. Nanook gives no quarter, entangling them until Khaslana mewls and whines for Them.
Panting, Khaslana complains. “Don’t just do this. You, say something.” He has already lost his mind, the shattered fragments of himself clumsily pieced back together, barely enough to feign a semblance of normality.
No one has seen past the crumbling façade.
**
Some time after Irontomb was defeated, Khaslana inexplicably opened his eyes to the sight of golden waves of wheat. Amphoreus was remade, he learned from overheard conversations, reborn from memories. Unable to face the friends he killed, but needing to see that they were alive, he hid himself and went in search. He found them in Okhema City. There they were, chatting and laughing, everyone. Mydei was crouching down, speaking with Tribbie, while Anaxa sniped with Aglaea. Castorice and Hyacine chatted happily… with a smiling young man with hair as pure as fresh fallen snow, his eyes as blue as a clear sky.
Khaslana was dazed, nauseous and lightheaded, the vision surreal.
Who… Who was that? Who was the interloper, laughing and smiling with his dearest companions?
Perhaps he already knew in his heart the truth, because despite telling himself that person was an intruder, Khaslana didn’t reveal himself, watching from the shadows.
He confirmed it wasn’t Irontomb. He confirmed… that the person was genuine. The bright and cheerful Phainon of the 33,550,336th cycle, before he received the memories of thirty-three million lifetimes. It was Phainon, untainted and unbroken.
This was the friend his companions deserved, a person who hadn’t cruelly murdered them millions of times over in cold blood, carving the Coreflames out of their corpses. This was the friend they wanted, able to smile and joke with them, not a broken puppet stained by the color of Destruction, held together by hatred and spite, unforgivable and unwanted.
Khaslana could never face those friends again. He had known that and was prepared for it.
But he wasn’t prepared for Phainon.
Seeing Phainon with them—how perfectly he fit in with them, how happy they all were together—crumbled the ashes that remained of his heart.
Khaslana left. He wandered the galaxy, drifting from world to world, but he was no more than an empty shell. No matter what sights he saw, what great wonders or horrors, he couldn’t feel anything.
If the Phainon with the Chrysos Heirs was the genuine article, then what was he?
He sometimes doubted reality, sometimes doubted that memory, and sometimes doubted whether he himself was real. Maybe he had already entered the River of Souls, wandering an eternal purgatory, or maybe he was just a displaced ghost. His mental and emotional state was more often in disorder than not, like a collapsing house, barely held up with sticks for support.
There was a pattern to his directionless travels, one that he didn’t realize until later. He was drawn to the energy of Destruction. Wherever he encountered their forces, a spark of that old flame would be lit, and he would fight the Antimatter Legion. The heat of the struggle, the pain of being wounded, the sight of golden blood, rekindled the old hatred and grounded him in his own body, focused his mind. He never felt more alive and real than when he burned with rage, destroying Their creations.
As this journey without a destination continued, unknowingly, something slowly became mixed in with the hatred. By some twisted fate, he became reliant on this clash against Destruction to maintain his stability. He remembered that golden gaze that fell upon him and didn’t look away, growing a strange sense of… dependence. Chasing Destruction’s trail across the galaxy, he told himself it was vengeance, cursing Nanook to the stars.
But buried in his heart was an unconscious desire for that person’s gaze to fall upon him again… seeking that lingering warmth.
From the time he began to accumulate the Coreflames within this vessel, he was always burning, his body running at a temperature that could instantly evaporate his own sweat and tears. Unless he threw himself into a sun, he could no longer sense heat. In thirty-three million lifetimes, it was only at the very end, when he allowed himself to be consumed wholly by Destruction to merge with Irontomb, that he once again felt warmth.
It was just another day, gliding on his lonely path through the desolate silence of the stars, when a hand that could encompass entire worlds reached out and enclosed him in its warmth.
**
Carrying the crushing burden of so many eternal recurrences, Khaslana’s mental and emotional state was unstable to begin with. Embraced in this timeless place with its indistinct canvas of stars, repeating these similar actions with no voice but his own—it’s enough to drive anyone mad, much less someone already disturbed from an eternity of lifetime loops.
“Say something,” Khaslana tries to make it a demand, but it comes out as a plea, his hands clutching at Nanook’s arms.
Nanook lays a palm on his pelvis and Khaslana jolts, instinctively grabbing the hand in alarm. But Nanook doesn’t activate the mark this time, the heat of the large hand over the swell almost comforting.
<< It’s almost done. >> Nanook’s voice is low and multitoned, like a hundred deep voices speaking together.
Distracted by the compelling sound, it takes a moment for Khaslana to understand what Nanook means. “What?” Shocked into crystal clear focus, he looks down at the soft swell of his belly, the carved definition of abdominal muscles smoothed out by distention from receiving so many blessings.
Nanook… Nanook is really going to impregnate him?
“I don’t believe you,” Khaslana says blankly. Planting Destruction’s seed in a vessel of Destruction to create new Destruction. Even if the theory is marginally plausible, it’s still absurd. Destruction is the antithesis of procreation. “You’re delusional.”
The hand massages gently—fuck, possessively cupping his womb.
Khaslana’s hips shift unconsciously, and he has to bite his lip, the motion shifting the heavy length spearing him open, rubbing his inner walls in different, stimulating ways. Nanook watches him, always watching. “What—What kind of monster are you even trying to make?”
Nanook doesn’t answer, beginning to move again…
Khaslana just about loses it. “Answer me!” he roars. In a fit of temper, he kicks at the other person, uncooperative until he is forcibly held down. He arches and strains, just to feel the anchoring steadiness of the restraining hands. “Mn! N-Nanook, at least tell me how many more times!”
Nanook tries to kiss him—shutting him up, the fucker—but Khaslana bites him back. “Give me a number or, actually, just give me a break. This isn’t supposed to be a marathon event.” Not that he knows anything about how this damned mark works. It could be a spell with conditions… who knows.
Nanook scoops him close, putting Khaslana in his lap.
“Changing positions is not a break,” Khaslana whines, his head drooping onto Nanook’s shoulder. He likes being held, but he’s tired. “Nanook.”
<< Soon. >>
Pressed this close to the muscular chest, the resonance of that voice reverberates through Khaslana, deep and soothing. Fingers tickle through his feathers, finding erogenous zones he didn’t know he had. Khaslana pushes into the touch, moaning, and closes his eyes as he is swept up into pleasure once again.
**
Khaslana drowses, vaguely registering Nanook shifting them out of the Path Space. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he has been moved to, not with the sheer density of Destruction, the cradling sensation of warmth. It could only be Destruction’s domain.
The mark is no longer glowing, settled into his skin with its purpose fulfilled. He’s exhausted and… even with his extraordinary healing, his sex is sore and swollen. Still spasming with aftershocks of being ruthlessly bullied, the orifice opens and closes, leaking a continuous mess onto his thighs. After having that excessive object in him for so long, it feels strange to not be filled and stretched around it.
When Nanook rises from the makeshift bed, Khaslana stirs, instinctively grabbing Their hand. “Where are you going?”
Nanook’s head tilts down, expressionlessly observing their joined hands. Squeezing Khaslana’s fingers, Nanook steps away, gone in the next moment.
Khaslana’s heart sinks.
He hurriedly shoves away the feeling. He doesn’t care about the bastard. It’s just rude, that’s all. He is still sulking when he gets the sudden sense of being watched.
Nanook’s giant face gazes down at him. A hand extends, the huge open palm lying next to the makeshift bed.
Khaslana stares at it. His body feels heavy, craving the warmth only this loathsome person can give him. And there is a scent in the air, that same scent of Destruction, except it has become considerably more tantalizing, drawing him over in a daze. These are consequences of the most recent changes in his body. Too tired to care overmuch about it, he climbs up and lies down on the warm palm. Breathing in the scent of Nanook’s skin, he unconsciously relaxes.
Khaslana just wants to sleep already, but he isn’t able to settle. The place below clenches uncontrollably, still hungry to be filled. Rubbing his thighs together, he glares up at Nanook, who is already turning Their gaze away to the cosmos beyond.
“Hey! You!” Khaslana calls rudely.
Nanook blinks slowly, looking down.
“You did this.” Khaslana puts a hand over that damn mark. “It..” his voice falters, “It feels… empty,” he grits out. “Do something about it.”
The giant face looms closer, the other hand appearing. Turning Khaslana onto his back, two massive fingers spread Khaslana’s legs apart. Biting his lip, Khaslana turns his face away, feeling needy and wanton. The red, swollen folds are exposed to Nanook’s gaze, the desecrated opening between spasming and unable to close, with thick milky fluid slowly flowing out. And, above, the brand of Their ownership. Something dangerous flickers in Nanook’s golden eyes, looking at Their beautiful vessel spread open for Them, defiled and debauched, wearing Their proud claim on his skin.
At the extreme end of exhaustion, Khaslana’s awareness of time is blurry, failing to recognize that the other person has been looking for too long.
Khaslana lies on Their palm, open and defenseless, a vulnerability that rouses beastly desires. But the gesture is also… trusting.
Putting the dangerous impulse away, Nanook focuses Their power.
Khaslana gasps when something hot and huge suddenly presses in, wings arching and hips lifting as the leaking come is pushed back into his pussy. “Nn… Ah… smaller,” he demands breathily, his hips squirming. The thing going into him is golden, shaped with the energy of Destruction. “Just, just a little.” The stretch eases to something comfortable as it slides all the way in, nudging against his cervix. Warm and heavy, snug inside, it relieves that deep craving when he squeezes down on it. He looks up when a giant finger strokes his open thigh.
<< Have you need of anything else? >>
Khaslana has the uncomfortable suspicion that he could name anything at this moment, and it would be summoned for him. There are things he should ask for—clothes, blankets, a living space if he is stuck here for a while—but fatigue drags at his lids, weighing down his limbs. “Later,” he says. Drained of energy, he lies down, curling up on his side again.
The hand withdraws.
Fluffing his wings, Khaslana mantles them over himself.
Cradled in his Aeon’s palm like a precious treasure, cocooned in Destruction’s warmth, Khaslana drifts into peaceful slumber.