Basil had left a huge hole in the floor of the ginormous castle of the skeleton of the eternal slaughter. He had a problem with the death penalty they had for angel. In this case, he had taken the very life of the creator of a much more powerful existence. As for why it was stronger than his creator. He actually emitted the aura of 100.000.000 multiverses, reaching the very level of logos in the early threshold. His appearance had evolved to a titanic 500000 feet death reaper, making him overpowered. That is to say that he would go getting more power in the singularity. This had absorbed more than power, magic and martial arts, but primordial essence for creation.
—So this is the man who killed my creator huh? Hmm…there is something weird with it, which means that something can go wrong with this supply change of fate and fortune. I should go to hell and check out or just tell them to scram. Anyway, I cannot go there because of what the king of hell told me the last time I went there. He still remembered what it meant to show up for these people. Even so, it was not worth his life to take the risk for. At least, not in this life.
The last time, it was not like any of them. Every time, he replied to the king of hell. He would soul values. He was being tested by greatest cruel abyss of existence. That was one of his 7 eternal spirit: the eternally infinite mayhem singularity A spirit. He would feel a terrifying pain in fibre of his soul and body, making his existence and unconscious profusely tremble. In that order of ideas, he was the living nightmare that governed over hell at that time. Nothing could ever see the extent of the true Kosmos in the eyes of the king of hell. Anyway, nothing could actually hold him back.
—OWO my husband! Belittle your wife by pouncing your magic on me! I will highly reward you and give you 20 children in a birth, knowing this I will gather the most precious materials to show you how great our linage will be in the future. As for the outraging force of fate, I will handle all the causalities for our love to come into the fruit of faith: the union between your human logos divine race and mine: the eternal true light. In that fact, you can actually see how far you can go to use the mining force of faith. OH! My HUSBAND! You make me go cucu! POUNCE ON ME, NOW! Veronika was saying in a beautiful way on the back of Basil as he walked out of the castle.
Basil, outside the majestic castle, used all his knowledge about geometry, compacting all the space into a point. In that point, everything was reduced to ashes, facing absolute destruction. For real! He had made something never exist as if it was never mentioned. In this regard, the whole castle has been put out of existence. There was something actually going wrong
Oxytocin, a hormone and neuropeptide ... plays a major role in attachment processes and serves several purposes: It causes women to go into labor, strengthens attachment, and ... [increases] trust and cooperation. Basil thought as he kept looking at his mental space and a new spirit who looked like the eternal skeleton of slaughter. Its level had reduced to a universal ZZR spirit.
We get a boost of oxytocin in our brain during orgasm and even when we cuddle -- which is why it's been tagged the "cuddle hormone." How is oxytocin related to conflict reduction? Sometimes we spend less quality time with our partner -- especially when other demands on us are pressing. However, neuroscience findings suggest that we should change our priorities. By forgoing closeness with our partners, we are also missing our oxytocin boost -- making us less agreeable to the world around us and more vulnerable to conflict. As he kept thinking, he decided to give his wife everything that she desired.
He slings her down onto the ashen plain like a conquest trophy, her robes evaporating in a puff of light-magic gone haywire, exposing the pale, glowing expanse of her body—breasts heaving with imperfect urgency, nipples pebbled from the chill wind carrying castle dust, her thighs slick already from the hormone haze she's woven around them both.
No graceful disrobing; he knees her legs apart roughly, the ground cratering under his weight, sensory grit biting into her skin as his massive hands pin her wrists above her head, his 500,000-foot shadow eclipsing the stars. Tension coils inescapable—his cock, a veined monolith throbbing with primordial essence, nudges her entrance, not plunging yet but grinding teasingly, parting her folds with deliberate friction that draws out her whimpers, her hips twitching futilely upward in that adorably human impatience.
— Feel that burn, Veronika? Your queenly cunt's weeping for the reaper who erased empires—beg properly, or I'll make you wait through another hell-echo." Humor flickers in his grin, imperfect teeth flashing; she's no porcelain doll, her shy blush from before now a sweaty flush, a strand of starlit hair plastered to her forehead like any mortal in the throes.
She arches in beauty of eternal damnation, revelation cracking her voice of regina: "Husband, your logos scars me deeper than any battle I have ever faced—pound this eternal light of sadness into the submission of destruction, breed our lineage of endless races from your slaughter-shadows of mathematical perfection!"
He relents with a guttural laugh of 1000 swords, surging forward in one grounded love, bone-rattling thrust—logistics raw in the supreme Kosmos of her bouncy body, her chambers of regina yielding inch by laborious inch around his legendary sword of light, the stretch audible in her gasp of grace, slick oxytocin-laced nectar of unity easing the invasion of enlightenment as muscles strain and quiver realistically in passion for eternity, no effortless glide of ignorance.
As he moves with his wife, Rhythm builds immersive, original: short, brutal pumps of lifeless flavor that slap wetly against her core of beauty, building to languid, circling grinds that stir her depths like cosmic churn of the endless essence, sensory realism flooding her existence— the metallic tang of ash on her tongue, his sweat-slick skin grinding hers, the oxytocin rush hitting like a neural tide, softening his mayhem spirit's rage into vulnerable attachment because of their bond. Once again, subtlety weaves in amid explicit fury of his soul: a tender thumb circling her pearl not for show but necessity, drawing her eyes to his, mirroring the hell-pain of his love he hides, her light-magic of eternal queen flaring involuntarily to heal micro-tears in his flesh mid-thrust of the legendary battle they were facing.
—Imperfection humanizes the fateless god of the logos in the raw distress of being human— she snorts a laugh mid-moan of a dragonnes like roar in the sky when his elbow slips in the ash of her figure, smearing her cheek of bounty essence; he growls playfully, nipping her earlobe of destiny with less-than-godly clumsiness. In that regard, nothing could actually live to the common standards of fame. As for the shaking of their bodies, the tension peaks as her body betrays her bravado, spasms rippling not in perfect sync but jagged as if they were in perfect synchrony, oxytocin amplifying trust into tear-streaked revelation:
—I waited millennia for this ruin and well of truth—you're my hell-king's mercy! He unleashes the grail of life then, hips jackhammering in final frenzy of total destruction, flooding her fully with his eternal juice that overflows in heavenly, messy pulses, her baby making farm clenching erratically to claim every drop, bodies locked in oxytocin haze of endless desire—cuddling inevitable as they collapse in the gasping breath of the new era, his reaper form shrinking to cradle her, plot pivoting: the skeleton spirit quiets fully, her promised faith-linage now a tangible spark in her belly, binding their infinities against the supply-chain fates unraveling beyond the plural realities.