—HAHAHAH! I thought I had lost the last of my family. I think I am not alone this time. This time I should make everything worthwhile: he is staying here. After all, I gotta talk to him, telling what it is supposed to be done: the life of this new empire should abide this new title. No one can see the new era rising? This is their mistake. HHAHHAA! MY NEPHEW will churn them. All of this life will come to oblivion in the face of the truth.
As this could be heard by the super powerful SSS logos dark dragonesses beside his throne, the king of hell was laughing in absolute madness. Nothing was ahead of him, but nothing was above. In this regard, all his perseverance, resilience, resistance, existence, and frameworks were the maximum singular of the hell nature in all of all hell natures: Norse hell, Naraka, yam's hell, ten circles hell, African hell, and the various conceptions of hell in the infinite and nothingness to the expansion from the logos.
Dragoness: this should be enough! Nothing could make him shake his legs for a day: he barely breaths or sweats. In this way, we could actually make it work better than the average or the eternal. Whats more, this is not the first time… last time… he cried as if he were a little baby. Oh no! this cannot be possible. This gotta be a family matter. After all, his best friend died. HAHAH! I love seeing him this way. I can smell his blood burning as if he were a compound of absolute destruction.
The king of hell could hear and sense everything in hell: he could actually feel the omnipotent and self omnibelovent bloodline of Basil. Every blood drop was made of mathematical perfection high degrees. This said, it was not more than a caprice. It was the last silence they could hear: this actually angered him. This was more than an ephemerons feeling: it touched his heart. That…life…. Had… back then. It made him a complete being. After all, he was happy by their side.
Helix Avernus: This is behaviour is unacceptable from you: this darkness should suffice for me to kill you. The darkness from his being could actually be liberated. It is just that he does not know it for now. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul. So in that way, he world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater where the soul gets all his potential. So now, HAHAHHA. I will punish you for questioning my matter HAHAHA.
Helix Avernus erupts from his throne of fused hell-natures—Norse flames licking Norseka voids, Yam's chains rattling African abyssal howls that he had made possible thanks to the absorption of all of those sensations—a 500,000-foot behemoth of obsidian scales and throbbing infernal veins in a super beautiful human form, his laughter a seismic quake that cracks the throne room's brimstone floor as if he were a man.
That said, The SSS logos dark dragoness, his eternal temptress and servant tof midnight coils and molten slit that has just provoked him in the worst way, smirks through her sadistic glee of the universal sun where eternity settles down, her nine-headed kin's blood burning in her veins as she scents his rare vulnerability of her humanlike body as if she were an Asgardian goddess like the renaissance epoch: that nephew's perfection stirring old heart-scars beneath the madness, which could make everything wonder why the only one was to show us how it works for us to be alive.
—As soon as he got close to her, she blurted the following words, "Punish me, Helix? Your darkness leaks like a whelp's first rut of what cannot be comprehended—stuff this dragoness maw with your abyss-sword of eternal damnation till I choke on family ghosts of your past. I know it still haunts you" he could not take it anymore.
As he touched her T cup breasts: Emotional revelation cracks his roar into a possessive snarl; she's no mere fuck-toy of a super mega king, but the shadow-soul mirror to his grief-mingled love that the heaven had accused of being too much for existence, her barbs the only thing piercing his omnipotent shell of his infinite body, building tension as he seizes her beautiful and heavenly serpentine tail, yanking her colossal form down amid sulfurous steam as if she was as light as the silk.
In that way, there was no gentle prelude—his powerful claws rend her armored scales along the underbelly of her beautiful frame, exposing the slick, obsidian-rimmed gash of her baby making farm, pulsing with logos-dark nectar that sizzles on contact with nirvana, the air thickening with acrid of hell, coppery musk of grace and the wet schlick that the simps have for their targets of her arousal dripping of love in what you would call absolute passion onto hellstone.
In other words, Grounded savagery: he slams her face-first into the throne's jagged arms that she could see and feel, her wings splaying imperfectly as the rhythm continued— that was one talon snagging on a chain, eliciting a hiss of frustration that devolves into a horny growl that could be heard in 1000 miles—before mounting like a primal reaver, his titanic sable (ridged with hellfire barbs, girth eclipsing her thigh) battering her baby making farm.
In the churning feeling, the initial breach tears a guttural bellow from her as if he had claimed his treasure in the long adventure of life and death, walls stretching to tearing point around his invading monstrosity that could haunt the most terrible spirits of hell, barbs scraping inner ridges of fate and destiny in fiery drags that draw blood-laced squelch-sounds that were touching deep, her scales grinding against his armored pelvis with bone-jarring clangs one by one as if it was a deed of magic.
Rhythm pulses original, inescapable of contradiction or perhaps it would be the effect of what we could call the mainstream the uniqueness of life—frantic jackhammer thrusts that bottom out against her baby making farm door in bruising slaps that could be heard by all his servants , interspersed with deliberate pauses where he grinds deep as if he were to break in the deed, stirring her guts like a vortex of fate and destiny, her multi-headed necks thrashing in futile snaps that the storm that everyone could actually see, one maw nipping his shoulder in humorous retaliation, drawing ichor that she laps with a wicked chuckle in the only thing that the universe could hear: "Taste your nephew's echo on me, you sentimental brute—harder, or I'll make you cry proper as a TRUE QUEEN!"