Chapter 25: Void's Eternal Ache
The void was a cruel architect, designing our prison with exquisite torment in mind. Suspended in a dimensionless expanse—neither space nor time, neither light nor true darkness—Elena and I floated mere fingertips apart. I could see her, every heartbreaking detail: her raven hair drifting like ink in water, her voluptuous form still clad in the tattered remnants of her catsuit, curves that had once been my sanctuary now a distant mirage. Her eyes—those deep brown pools that had held love, rage, and passion—were open, staring back at me with the same silent agony. But no words passed between us. No touch. The seal was absolute: a translucent barrier of twisted artifact energy, forged from our own stolen essences, that muffled sound, blocked contact, and dulled the flow of time itself.
We weren't asleep, but not fully awake either. Consciousness ebbed like a tide, moments stretching into eternities, then snapping back without warning. I reached—always reached—my fingers straining against the invisible wall, inches from hers. So close. Agonizingly close. I could almost feel the warmth of her skin, the electric spark of our auras syncing. But nothing. The pain was a living thing, gnawing at my core: not being able to comfort her, to whisper "I love you" one more time, to hold her through the fear. Was she thinking of me? Remembering our unrestricted nights in the sky, where each thrust thundered like gods at play? Or was she lost in the same loop of despair, her mind replaying the battle where we'd fallen?
Time lost meaning. Were we imprisoned for hours? Days? Weeks? The void offered no clocks, no sunrises. Only the endless, suspended now—Elena right there, yet forever out of reach. I screamed silently, rage bubbling, but no sound escaped. Power surged within me—violet energy flickering against the seal—but it dissipated like smoke. Helpless. For the first time since awakening my abilities, truly helpless. The separation was worse than any wound: a soul-deep ache, knowing my partner, my love, suffered alone, her memories intact but our bond severed by this cruel limbo.
Meanwhile, on Earth, Succubus and Playboy reveled in their conquest, oblivious or indifferent to our torment.
Two weeks had passed in the real world—though to us, it felt like both an instant and an eon. In that time, the clones had amassed billions, turning global extortion into an art form. Governments, desperate and broken, funneled trillions into hidden accounts—cryptocurrency vaults, offshore havens, black-market empires. It started with subtle threats: a portal cracked open over Washington D.C., spilling just enough monsters to topple monuments and scatter lawmakers. "Pay for protection," Playboy broadcasted in a charismatic video, his violet suit gleaming under studio lights, Succubus draped over his shoulder like a trophy. "Or watch your capitals burn." Succubus licked her lips on camera, her crimson curves on full display. "We'll keep the beasts at bay—for a price. Refuse, and we unleash hell."
They made good on it. In London, they deliberately unleashed a wave of shadow knights—armored horrors that rampaged through the financial district, shattering the Shard and flooding the Thames with void-sludge. Billions in damages, thousands dead. The UK paid up—hundreds of millions wired within hours. Tokyo followed: vampires draining life from subway crowds, golems toppling skyscrapers. Japan capitulated, transferring assets that swelled the clones' coffers. Paris, Beijing, Sydney—each fell in orchestrated disasters. Earthquakes summoned by manipulated portals in California, floods in Mumbai, blizzards burying Moscow. The clones played gods, unleashing calamity then "saving" the day for tribute.
Other superheroes rose—valiant, but outmatched. The Sentinel League, a coalition of global metas, tried ambushes: a speedster from Brazil blurring into Succubus during a raid, only to be drained dry by her seductive tendrils. A strength-based hero from Nigeria grappled Playboy in a New York skirmish, but the clone's charming illusions turned allies against him, leading to a brutal defeat. None were as strong as us—the originals. Our powers, cloned and twisted, made Succubus and Playboy untouchable apex predators. "Pathetic," Playboy sneered in a viral clip, standing atop a ruined Eiffel Tower. "Without Thick Chick and Loverman, you're ants scrambling before gods."
The world descended into a dark era. Economies crumbled under the weight of tributes; societies fractured as the rich fled to fortified enclaves, leaving the poor to fend against sporadic monster leaks. Curfews enforced by patrolling horrors, media censored to praise the "protectors." Succubus and Playboy became twisted icons—feared, worshipped in underground cults. They lived lavishly: private jets retrofitted with void-tech, yachts that phased through storms, parties where elites paid millions to attend, hoping for mercy.
To celebrate their first two weeks of unchallenged rule—and the billions pouring in—they chose the world's tallest building: a 2,716-foot spire piercing the desert sky. They arrived at midnight, portals depositing them on the roof under a canopy of stars. Succubus wore a skimpy crimson gown that barely contained her exaggerated curves—breasts threatening to spill free, ass swaying like a siren's call. Playboy in a tailored violet suit, unbuttoned to show his chiseled chest.
"Look at it," Succubus purred, leaning over the edge, wind whipping her hair. "Our playground. Humans like ants below, scurrying to pay us. Makes me so wet."
Playboy grabbed her from behind—hands cupping her breasts through the fabric, squeezing hard. "Billions in the bank, babe. Time to fuck like the gods we are. Gonna pound you until this tower crumbles."
She moaned—grinding back against his hardness. "Yes... take me. Make it nasty. Ruin me like we ruined the world."
He ripped her gown—fabric tearing like paper, exposing her naked form to the night. Breasts bounced free—full and perky, nipples hard in the cool air. He spun her, pushing her against the spire's antenna, bending her over the edge. "Ass up, slut. Spread for me."
She complied—arching, pussy glistening under moonlight. "Fuck my tight hole... stretch me with that big cock. I'm your victory whore."
He freed himself—cock thick and veined, slamming into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed—ecstasy echoing over Dubai. "Yes! Pound me... harder... make me cum like the world's burning!"
Thrusts built—superhuman force shaking the tower. Each slam cracked concrete below—vibrations rippling down floors. "Take it, bitch... your pussy's mine... gonna fill you until you leak."
She clawed the railing—tendrils of crimson energy lashing out, heightening sensations. "Deeper... ruin my cunt... we're unstoppable... fuck the ants below!"
Intensity escalated—his hips blurring with speed, her bounces meeting him like car crashes from our space days. Slaps thundered—each one booming like our sky sessions, shockwaves cracking glass panels.
The building groaned—floors buckling floor by floor. 200 stories of steel and glass trembling under their passion.
She came first—body convulsing, crimson nova exploding outward, shattering windows in waves. "I'm cumming... fuck yes... drown me in your load!"
He followed—thrusting deep, filling her as the tower swayed. "Take my cum, whore... our empire's seed!"
Orgasms peaked—combined nova detonating like a bomb. The building collapsed—floor by floor crumbling in a cascade of rubble, dust clouding the desert as they flew out, laughing maniacally.
The country paid extra tribute the next day.
The world was their playground—humans ants to be toyed with. They unleashed disasters for fun: a monster wave on Rio's beaches during Carnival, forcing Brazil to pay double. Gangsters elevated to enforcers, cities divided into "protected" zones for the elite. Succubus and Playboy ruled from shifting void-palaces, indulging in orgies with charmed followers, amassing wealth that rivaled nations.
But how did they exist? The truth suddenly entered my mind—a revelation piercing the void's haze.
Shadowfall. Before his defeat, he'd harvested our essences—artifact residue from battles, DNA from wounds. Cloned in secret labs, twisted with void-darkness. Succubus: Elena's power laced with seductive drain. Playboy: my abilities infused with manipulative charm. Born to surpass us, to rule where we protected.
I knew—but powerless. Suspended, unable to act, the agony deepened. Elena so close, yet worlds away. Our love eternal, but trapped in silence.
The dark era reigned.
Earth burned.
And we waited—fingertips apart—for a way out.