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Not on my Time

The Infinite Dragonflight shall thrive

_My world was no different from yours.

No. In fact, it was worse than yours. In yours, it was the Blue Dragons who were sacrificed to Deathwing’s folly. They were exterminated, and Malygos fell into apathy.

He could never cope with loss, much like the loss of his entire flight. Oh… I saw it all. I saw it through the timeways many times. So much repetition of the same loss, with him attempting to strip Azeroth of its mages while taking an arrogant stance amidst the Scourge invasion.

He always considered Magic to solve problems, even when he attempted to create facsimiles, populating my brood with shimmering dreams._

_I destroyed every one of them, chasing those illusions from the caverns while he continued to visit, he and the others: Alexstrasza and her consorts.

Do you know she only lost her brood in a few worlds? Yes. You know it, and how happier we were and not. But I’m thinking about the impossible.

I lost my brood, and I cannot take them back. I saw my future without them, one much different from yours. One in which I become infinite, not because my people corrupted me. But because I created them. And I want to recreate them… Through you._

Nozdormu’s eyes reopened.

He blinked, only to feel a hand press against his front paw. It was one of his children, coming to see him in his nightmare and to soothe the old Dragon.

“Thank you, child,” he said as he blinked to shoo off the exhaustion weighing on him. Despite being the Aspect of Time, the Dragon always had those bags under his eyes, a sign of an everlasting exhaustion that wouldn’t leave him.

And would worsen over the years.

Still. As he grumbled and stretched his wings, the massive Dragon peered left and right.

The Caverns of Time were his domain. And, ordained like a clockwork, the Bronze Dragonflight was hard at work to mend the timeways.

A few were working with adventurers, like Chromie. A few did it on their own or relied solely on Dragonkin. But the meddling presence of the timeways affected those caverns, etching onto the stone passageways leading to many worlds, many alternative versions of their existence.

Some joyful paradises where no evil could endure. Some dreadful places where no life could thrive. In this regard, perhaps the Bronze Dragonflight were the true gardeners of Azeroth, as they trimmed and guided time like a tree.

A consideration, the old Dragon shook away, shaking his mane, while his shape hastily shifted.

His body, more massive than a ship, shrank unto itself. The legs lessened, the arms shrank. And soon, his entire body shifted as he went from quadrupedal to bipedal. As his muscles shifted, his wide wings almost retracted into his body while reduced to a vestigial presence.

Next, his mouth and muzzle realigned, no longer aligned with his neck and spine; his face shrank until he was but a different version of himself: humanoid without the traits of the Azeroth races, no longer bipedal. And yet imposing with the toga he wore.

He looked like a lesser Drakonid, though slimmer than they were. His pectorals were not as developed, but his leaner appearance made him stand out in stark contrast. A stark and dignified appearance as he stepped onto the sand covering the Cavern’s ground and approached the center with the sand clock floating at the center.

However, as he approached, there was something different from the usual. No, different from what he’d foreseen.

His glimmering blue eyes focused ahead, seeing only the hourglass of time surrounded by Dragonkin working and toiling as usual.

But when he peered at it, he saw a crowd of Dragonkin trembling and shaking, and yapping before they noticed Nozdormu’s form.

“Nozdormu! Nozdormu! This is terrible!” shouted Zordormu, a youngling.

“What is happening, my child?”

“The timeways! They’re shifting! We- Something is happening to them!”

Nozdormu frowned, then looked at the sand clock.

Typically, the clock would merely follow the flow of time. However, this time, he could see the grains were not flowing at the same pace. Hence, something at the end of the timeways was locking the hourglass, stopping the sand from flowing down. Something that sent a shiver down Nozdormu’s spine.

“Would he? No… It is impossible,” he mumbled, his eyes drifting on the portals and open gaps in time… At the mirrors of Azeroth.

Indeed, he could see the quakes, ever so little. Shifting ever so distinctly. And then, his eyes returned to the younglings.

“Fret not. I can already see what is ahead, my Flight. Rest easy and follow your duties. The timeways will remain.

“But… Could it be?”

“It must be the Infinite and nothing more,” said Nozdormu, closing his eyes and feeling it. The tug, where someone or something was trying to alter the timeways. It was an event that happened… At the end of the War of the Ancients.

An event in time, yet its physical presence existed within the caverns as Nozdormu joined his hands behind him and walked. He heard the scurrying Dragonkins behind him, asking themselves whether or not they should stop him.

However, Nozdormu was not afraid. Not as he advanced through the corridors, glanced at another mirror of an Azeroth drowned in waters. And then, he stepped through the threshold. The space where the Caverns of Time ended, and reality took hold instead.

The place was musty and heavy. With the smell of… Sickness. Of blood. It was somewhere Nozdormu had been rather acquainted with, a mere hole in the stone before Malygos took flight to return to his lair.

Yet, as he glanced around, he couldn’t see Malygos at all. In that instant, in that place, in that moment, the Aspect of Magic should have been resting and nursing his wounds.

However, no traces. No attendants from the Red Dragonflight to placate him. No one.

“Show yourself!” said Nozdormu, planting his feet in the hard stone, sending a shockwave through. The dust in the cavern was lifted, then stopped mid-air. Time was stopped. But still no trace of the Infinite Dragonflight, who surely attempted to erase Malygos at that instant.

No rippling, no presence, no faint hint of time magic like they used to weave.

Nozdormu frowned before releasing his spell.

The dust cloud he had lifted then dropped and disappeared, leaving the Aspect of Time alone as he walked around the cavern, avoiding the threshold.

Malygos ought to be here, but as he examined the dry blood puddle, Nozdormu knew he had been removed long ago. Or…

“There is no need to search any further.”

The voice resonated behind Nozdormu. But it was familiar and yet different, changed as he raised his head and turned towards the threshold. Towards himself.

But the Bronze scales had a grayer shade, the hands were darker as if burned. And though they wore the same toga, his counterpart’s toga looked disheveled, used, and not as ornate.

“Murozond.”

“Yes. But not quite,” replied Nozdormu’s counterpart, tilting his head. And then, showing his teeth, though some had been broken.

No. As he observed, Nozdormu could see the difference in Murozond. Scars he had not seen, covering that face and body. Scars that ran on that muzzle, almost reaching for one of those deep blue eyes.

Yet, it couldn’t be him, as he had never gotten those scars and never the Murozond he had foreseen.

“You come from another time.”

“Yes,” replied the ‘Nozdormu’ by bending forward, almost in a salute. “Welcome to my domain.”

“You… You disrespected the Titan’s edict. You intertwined our worlds.”

“We all do it. We will do it if we have not, before,” said ‘Murozond’, rolling his eyes. “What gives?”

Definitely, this Murozond was different. He moved with more fluidity, but he looked and acted erratically. Plus, he was drifting closer and closer to Nozdormu. Until Nozdormu had to take a step back.

“You are not here to corrupt me. You have nothing to gain by doing so. What do you want?”

“Good question. Do you know from where I come from?”

“I…” Nozdormu was about to say no.

Yet, he closed his eyes and opened himself to this place; he could feel it. The aching wound in his heart, a sight that ought not to be beheld. He gasped.

Not only from the pain as he saw it. But as one hand closed on his wrist.

“You saw it. You couldn’t stop yourself from giving it a peek,” said Murozond, his blue eyes almost malicious. “How was it?”

“It’s… I am sorry for your loss. But I must-“

“Return? Stop this? Erase me? No,” said Murozond, pulling Nozdormu closer.

As Nozdormu tried to yank his arm free, he felt it. The presence of time magic. The battle of wills as their powers clashed altogether.

Their hold on the timelines was pushing against one another, as the world around them quivered and… Murozond approached, unfazed, while Nozdormu seemed to be paralyzed. Until bronze and gray scales were almost meeting.

“Silly you. You sacrificed too much to Neltharion’s ploy. But I never gave in to his lies,” said Murozond, but not the one holding Nozdormu.

That voice came from behind, and Nozdormu saw another Murozond was there. The selfsame, but with his hands reaching inside Nozdormu’s toga.

He reached for the chest, digging into the soft scales covering it. And then, when the digits found one nub, they pinched it.

They pinched the sensitive flesh underneath while another pair of hands came from another Murozond, coming to tear apart the toga.

“The timeways cannot withstand this,” mumbled Nozdormu.

“They can. They will endure well while I… or we breed us. They had all their first turns with you; hence, it is mine. Plausibly.”

Back to the first Murozond, he explained himself while he reached for his toga to expose his body. To expose the many scars covering that belly, those thighs. And almost that groin.

But those genitals were definitely there, from the selfsame low-hanging testicles to the girthy and already stiff pink cock.

To the one with the ridges underneath the length, following the bulging urethra down to the base, and where the slit and cock meet.

A vision of Dragonhood, already dripping and hard. Followed by all the other Murozonds, their own organs rubbing against Nozdormu’s body, smearing the bronze scales with their precum, impregnating his scales with their musk, with their stench.

And Nozdormu’s breathing became shallow, his mind and eyes drifting as he looked around, trying to fixate on something that wasn’t a pale copy of him.

Yet, he couldn’t.

He was unable to even focus on anything else when his Toga fell, and one of the Murozond reached for his slit, pulling on the edge, and then planted the clawed fingers inside.

He roared, but the sound died when it felt good. That… Murozond knew his weakness. Knew where his cock was most sensitive.

A spot right under the third ridge where the flesh was softer and sensitive, to the point a tongue’s caress could send him careening if he was in his true shape.

However, this was not the case.

And the Murozonds had, at least, the decency to steady him as the one inside his slit continued to stroke and caress, eliciting what would be… An erection. Eliciting what would be a drippy, stiff mast that released droplets of precum onto the solid ground.

“This… is a low blow. Especially from a… Murozond,” said Nozdormu, gulping and yet noticing his cock that was bobbing up and down, titillated by the clawed fingers.

“Low. But I know your weaknesses. Yet, I am not above using them… Such as…”

The first Murozond stopped and raised his index finger. A signal for one of them to go between his legs and to stroke the space behind his testicles. There, his scales, with his taint, were also sensitive, but to a whole different degree.

Enough for Nozdormu. Enough that he tried to yank his arms away, to free himself while his legs quivered and pointed in the same direction.

“Enough… Enough. You’ve been clear. You know my weaknesses. But. What threat is this? If… You kill me, you will take away that world’s survival.”

“That world? You already knew it had been doomed long ago. You’re almost rogue. But I want this timeline to be my staging ground for a new Infinite Dragonflight. And you… Will be my first concubine.”

“Your first-?”

Nozdormu stopped, finding that the finger on his taint was followed by another going near his asshole. The clawed digit danced upon his wrinkled and virgin entrance under his tail.

“I- I cannot bear children! You- What folly is this?” asked Nozdormu, gulping while the finger pressed on the rim, squeezed it… And then, pried it open. Open enough to reveal the sultry pucker, to reveal that pinkish spot midst the bronze scales.

One that was to meet with… One of Murozond’s cock. To have that hard and drippy shaft press against Nozdormu’s back entrance despite the searing pain bursting in his mind.

Despite the ache from having that muscle, so unused to the penetration, being forced open and to let in something rigid… And moist.

An alien sensation for someone unused to this.

“You cannot bear children… Right,” replied Murozond, strolling around and then… Reaching for Nozdormu’s muzzle, gripping to silence him, to force that mouth down until they were practically eye to eye. “Or you could. The servants of the Titans never divulged it.”

“Wh-What?” asked Nozdormu, blinking. And then frowning. “I did not foresee that.”

“And yet, I experienced it. With versions of myself. But we need something from you.”

Murozond’s chuckle was almost threatening, so were the strokes on Nozdormu’s chest, manifold and multiplying. Hands, arms, parts of bodies that ought not to be there. That could not be there due to their sheer numbers.

Each caress was akin to a stroke of clear color spread over his body while that cock… That penis, that disgusting organ, was forced deeper inside the Aspect of Time.

His legs shuddered; his tail-tip lashed out. But the pain, it continued to move deeper… And deeper. And deeper. Until his claws dug into the hard ground, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The pain was intense, as it was akin to being split from the inside. To have a pole progressing.

Yet, it was done so deliberately slow, so carefully, that pain wasn’t the focus. It wasn’t the Murozonds’ desires. Nozdormu threw his head back, only for one hand to hold his neck still.

“Stay still. We need you prepared and bred,” said a voice behind.

“He is still a virgin. Slow down.”

“I know. I already had him.”

They were more talkative all of a sudden.

As Nozdormu’s eyes drifted onward, he saw that his first interlocutor was gone. Vanished. Instead, another had taken his place. Or was it the same?

Were they not the same, rushing to him, licking his neck and scales. His muzzle. His ear hole?

They were now rushing against him, a pile of bodies that were pressing him, squeezing him, lifting him until his toes couldn’t touch the ground anymore, and yet were held.

Even his feet were massaged and rubbed, toyed with, as the copies chuckled and laughed, while Nozdormu sensed progress. That cock was getting deeper and deeper inside him.

At the same time, it wasn’t pure violence.

No. Midst all this, the copies were also reaching for his shaft and testicles. They toyed with the latter, rolling them in their palms before passing them from hand to hand like extolled jewelry. The former was stroked, gripped, tilted, forced to bend, and explored.

A pointless exploration because they honed in on the sensitive spots he had.

Those he had dared to explore in his younger years, in solitude, or from his concubines. Sensitive points that were touched, right to the tip that was even locked into a mouth.

The pleasure.

Oh, the pleasure was growing and steadily invading Nozdormu’s mind. Held as he was, unable to fight back, he was practically their toy. Their tool… Their object of desire was his groin, which was warming up.

Even his erection, lessened from the pain, was growing and pointing up… A threatening presence, a powerful erection that was praised, cooed at, and then licked with many more tongues than he could guess.

So many faces, so many muzzles, so many mouths, so many tongues.

They tangled, danced, coiled, rolled, cleaned. And behind, they left the saliva that was warm and moist and tempting… While his erection throbbed with such intensity.

It didn’t seem it would end there. And perhaps… Nozdormu wasn’t keen on it ending there.

“Do you appreciate it?” “You can say yes.” “I do not judge.” “I was only the watcher.”

The voices came with distinct tones. Not indifferent, not cold. But yearning and desiring. Sultry and suave. They were all the same and yet not… And they were his own voice.

An infinity of voices that were steadily searing his mind with their offers, with their lust, with his own… Desires.

Even the cock inside him, often changed and exchanged between the cumshots, was throbbing against something Nozdormu was discovering and embracing.

A spot, a presence whose titillating nudge was more pleasant.

He sighed, closing his eyes while his mouth opened… And another pressed against his, in a kiss. In a kiss, he knew nothing but was known.

His tongue had nothing to do, as he was guided through that forced tango, with his mouth being raped and invaded… And in which he feel nothing forceful.

His uvula was the threshold they ignored, focusing instead on Nozdormu’s tongue, to make him feel his own breath yet mixed with a tinge of sweetness. Heady wine from the mortals?

Nevertheless, he was kissed, licked, embraced, and held. He couldn’t see what was happening, but his mind had an inkling of the tangle he was at the center of.

The timeways were contorted in a way that ought to be impossible or dangerous, a weave that could rip at any moment should a weaver stop or lose their focus compared to another.

But they were all at once the same; hence they were all at once in perfect harmony to cease… To break. To abuse. To penetrate.

Nozdormu then felt himself being dragged into the tangle, his sense of time muddled by all the layers that were coalescing around him with the single purpose of making him feel good.

No. Not good, blissful. He was licked, masturbated, stroked, and massaged. Sore muscles were relaxed, down to his sphincter that was now licked around, slobbered on while the cock still plunged in his depths and filled him.

“Cum for us, Nozdormu.” “You desire it.” “Do not worry. We won’t say a thing.”

Their voices, again, so similar and different. One could be forceful, another persuasive, and the last one merely stating a truth.

Nozdormu desired to answer, but he couldn’t, his mouth forced to meet with another him, while his eyes could only see the sea of clearer scales and blue eyes.

So he closed them and instead focused on the fire down his throat. Growing, everlasting. Powerful.

And… One he couldn’t refuse, push against, or stop.

A growing inferno that was creeping in, rooting itself within his groin and reaching for the base of his cock to climb up. The same tendrils of delight spread down his testicles as they were pulled to his abdomen. And up his belly, down to his aching and shallow breath.

He was pleasure. He was sensations…

He was held. He was restrained. He was abused.

Murozond claimed him, penetrated him, filled his posterior. Each cumshot within him was like a strum echoing through the timeline, a note that was growing stronger and stronger in a worrying crescendo.

But that coming orgasm drowned everything. And it drowned Nozdormu when he cried, and his mouth was let go.

He cried and shot, his cock bursting white and spraying all the Murozond around him…

His cumshot was intense, powerful. It flew through the air only to coat the scales before they were licked, and a rumbling came forth.

“Delicious. But we are not done.” “The breeding shall be done.” “We need eggs.”

Nozdormu blinked before a powerful thrust shook him. His body would have fallen if not for the tight grip around him.

Not for the hands holding his thighs, knees, feet, hands, elbows, shoulders.

They would not relinquish him, not as he was lifted again… And another mouth came for his… As a tongue lovingly danced around his ear hole. And another of his voices whispered.

“We need the Infinite Flight. My concubine. My very first in this world.”

Nozdormu pulled on his arms… But as soon as he did, his ass was again shaken by a thrust.

And then, it was his mouth to have something rigid, dripping, forced into his mouth.

Cocks. So many that were rushing for his mouth, for his hands, for every part of his anatomy.

And then… Two inside him, filling his ass and pumping more semen into him.

For breeding.

-

Malygos peered away from the orb with tired eyes. The bags under them showed how many hours he’d spent watching at it and at the ley-lines through it.

However, it was a necessary process as the many needles through Azeroth were piercing the surface, realigning every ley-line to condense them in his domain. In Northrend.

He had… He had to finish this war, to end this conflict, all conflicts.

The mortal races had wielded magic with impunity for far too long, and it was his prerogative to end this folly. As the Aspect of Magic, he…

“What is this?”

Malygos shook his head, his smaller blue wings unfurling as he stepped around.

He stood in his private pocket dimension, a room where he compiled books and enchantments. A vault that also served as his private bedroom.

In this, he had the freedom to take his bipedal shape and embrace a more… Chubby shape. Sindragosa would have commented about it joyfully. But even though the Aspect of Magic had a nice pouch slightly dangling on the front, he had the taste to wear a proper robe. The fabric supported his belly but left his white-scaled abdomen exposed, revealing those slightly sagging moobs.

In a way, he almost looked his age compared to the other aspects, with his heavy white beard and added weight. Where Nozdormu was slender, and Deathwing was bulkier… Perhaps Malygos more closely resembled the shape of an old Dragonkin.

An old Dragonkin frowning while he waved his fingers to weave a spell. Magic coalesced between his fingers, the strand spreading in all directions before he caught it and ripped it.

In answer, all the surrounding mana screamed and resonated. It even resonated through him, though the spell remained despite the strands vanishing.

“It was always the first method you employed when I slumbered in the timeways.”

Malygos turned his head as quickly as possible, facing a familiar vision. Nozdormu was there, his blue eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. And his broken smile, a novelty.

“Nozdormu. Are you coming to punish me? To trap me in a time prison?” said Malygos, already waving his hand. “I must end this war. Mortals mustn’t wield magic. Step aside.”

“I did not come here to stop your way, Malygos. But to see my dear kin.”

“Bah! Alexstrasza must have heard their pleas and begged you. This won’t work. You should know this, Nozdormu. You were kind to me, so I will spare your flight.”

“And so you were kind to me. Hence why I came for you. And I am sorry for what you experienced. The throbbing ache you must experience when you think about their sacrifices for the folly of mortals. How that… Witch killed so many wonderful minds with her arrogance. And enabled his lies.”

Malygos stopped as he had formulated another weave, an aggressive spell that would bolt through any enchantment. He held it in his palm, shaky.

“Who are you? You are not Nozdormu,” said Malygos, his golden eyes squinting.

Yes, the scars were barely hidden under a guise, and the bronze color was almost faded.

“No. I am not,” answered ‘Nozdormu’, shrugging. “But I know what you feel. Have you ever imagined a world where… Your flight survived?”

“Pfah. Promise. I won’t give in to your words. If you came here to kill me for whatever plan the Infinite have, do it,” grumbled Malygos as he released the bolt. But the weave around that pocket dimension remained the same. Something was wrong.

“I won’t because you were kind to me. It hurts to see an old flame suffer this much. We are kin, in blood and pain.”

“What happened to my Nozdormu?”

Malygos groaned and reached for his favorite chair, sitting on it while he waved his fingers. His grimoire followed, while the pages flew as he searched for the runes to undo that spell.

He was locked in here, so he’d have to find a solution.

However, he found it odd when Murozond sat by him, almost leaning despite Malygos recoiling. And he pointed at one page from the grimoire.

“Oh, that spell,” said Murozond, pointing at a page with an archaic rune of mana tangle. “For decades, you employed that spell to pull me back because it destabilizes any mana around, weaponizing against any spell.”

Malygos stopped his clawed fingers, then found Murozond smiling at him. And so close.

“You killed him? You killed my brother?”

“No,” replied Murozond, rolling his eyes. “But he only had cold comfort for your fall.”

“He… What?”

Murozond leaned back, raising his hand to summon a sphere composed of sand. A representation of the pocket dimension. Then, as the sphere shifted, Murozond showed the Nexus. The Blue Dragonflight fortress, ruined, destroyed, reduced to its foundations.

“Is this? Is this my future? Are you saying this is what awaits me?”

“This already happened, Malygos. You left this pocket dimension and died, killed by adventurers because of your plan. But the arcane energy you wielded lashed out and destroyed the Nexus. Most of your rebuilt Dragonflight was killed, and then…”

The sand shifted quickly, first into a vision of a battlefield, then into a destroyed Stormwind. Quickly, the vision shifted until it culminated with Deathwing impaled on the Wyrmrest Temple, the world destroyed.

Malygos took in the sight. The vision. He gulped, but as he looked at Murozond, he saw no… fear. Or disgust. It was almost an exposition that left Malygos stunned before he interlocked his fingers and leaned forth.

The spell wasn’t there to limit him here, though he couldn’t move past its horizon with a prodding enchantment. And so…

“How many times… Have we had this discussion?”

“More than a thousand. The first ten occurrences, you attempted to kill me. The fifty after that, you walled yourself into silence.”

“You have been reciting everything,” replied Malygos.

“Yes. You’re the first to notice it at this stage of the discussion. So you know you cannot escape. I plucked you from the timeline right before your death.”

“But… Why?” replied Malygos, feeling Murozond’s presence leaning forth. So close, with a sweet smell of berries and mana wine. A flavor he… Inhaled. Loving flavor.

“Because you were my friend and more. You helped me rebuild myself when I lost my flight. You taught me everything you knew about magic. You were my confidante. And my lover.”

“Why… me, then? And not your Malygos? What is that scent?”

The flavor was intense, titillating. But so was the touch of Nozdormu underneath the Dragon’s beard, stroking the soft scales there and making him tense then relax.

“Because he doesn’t understand. I would never force you, Malygos, to do something you do not want,” replied Murozond, his breath warm against Malygos’ neck. “Only you can understand the need to unite our flights so we won’t lose ever again.”

“What about the mages? And… You say you do not force my hand, but you are coercing me through that timeloop,” huffed Malygos. “What else could you do against me?”

“Well. Perhaps we need to rewind.”

“But… Why?” replied Malygos, feeling Murozond’s presence leaning forth. So close, with a sweet smell of berries and mana wine. A flavor he… Inhaled. Loving Flavor.

Murozond’s touch danced upon his chest. Stroked the soft scales, and then down that belly.

“Because we were lovers once. We loved one another in the past. Then, as different versions. I wish to rekindle that love, Malygos. To protect you and help you.”

“You are not him. You don’t know… You don’t know what I have to do. I won’t flirt with you. Not after Sindragosa. I- I cannot let another soul.”

“No. This is not flirting. This is something we will want.”

Despite Malygos’ reticence, Murozond leaned forward and kissed him on the neck.

Yet, it wasn’t one mere kiss. But an infinity. A number so egregious, it felt like a lifetime of an embrace. An infinity of sensations. A world condensed into a single kiss, but the sensation was thrilling. Stunning for the aged Dragon who collapsed on his chair, blinking and clutching the armrest.

“What was that?” he mumbled, sweat dripping over his muzzle.

“All the time we had lost,” replied Murozond.

This time, it was another kiss, but on the lips.

A thousand kisses and then more, a thousand years of tangling, of soft embraces that made Malygos’ mind almost burst from the possibility. And then relax while a caress went over his chest. Only one. The Aspect of Magic smiled from the joy he suddenly felt.

“You… Never did this before,” he said with a smile.

“No. It is something I’ve only prepared for this moment. An eternity for us,” said Murozond.

It was such a powerful tone, almost frightening. Thrilling. So thrilling when that caress onto his chest became more than that. It was the caress in the middle of action, the caress when on the bed, when fighting, when grinning, when laughing, when tangling, when breeding.

It was all the caresses and more, every physical possibility that left Malygos panting.

“Again,” he mumbled, only to have his robe forced open, ripped by Murozond. The Dragon leaned to kiss the right nipple and then nibble on it. The first kiss was only one. But the nibble, it was a dozen mouths gently nibbling it at once. Softly, brutally, with love, with disdain, with anger, with need.

Malygos threw his head back, impaling the back of the chair with his horn as he released a guttural moan while his own erection pressed inside his pants, making them bulge with desire before he looked down… Down at Murozond, who had a smile.

“This is… Incredible. You must teach me this,” he said, overjoyed and enthralled. Such sensations, they were his and yet not. They were but echoes from another exchange. But they were all real, all felt. And all a part of him.

Much like his hands gripping Murozond’s head as they kissed. As their mouths tangled and a thousand embraces were shared.

Gasping, panting, needy.

At rest, at love, at war.

Without a break, without remorse, without regret.

It was everything and then not, for Malygos’ mind remained the same. He weathered the tidal waves of sensations. He weathered the rawness of that love while his fingers dug into Murozond’s body.

Yet, he was swayed. Swayed by everything he felt as he had Murozond’s fingers on his cock.

“I want to breed you, Malygos. Make you one of my concubines.”

“One of your concubines? Wait-“

“Let’s rewind, shall we?”

It was everything and then not, for Malygos’ mind remained the same. He weathered the tidal wave of sensations. He weathered the rawness of that love while his fingers dug into Murozond’s body.

Murozond, who didn’t wait to force open his partner’s legs, his claws cutting through the mageweave to expose Malygos’ low-hanging testicles and his hard, purplish cock. But not… Murozond ignored those testicles to play with the taint, with that asshole. With his rim that was tenderly touched, stroked… And then… Penetrated with one finger.

“Slo- Slow down. I have never been… Doing this. Perhaps your Malygos, but-”

“We have all the time we need,” replied Murozond with a chuckle as he leaned forth and kissed Malygos.

Kissed him while he went between the Blue Dragon’s legs, doffing his toga to have his own cock pressing against Malygos’ entrance.

And this time, the Blue Dragon was blessed. Blessed by a thousand years of penetration, by the pain, the tension, the rawness, the brutality, the caution, the tension, the fullness.

And Murozond was inside him, throbbing through his gutsy belly… Throbbing, making him full, even if he was only him. Only one version.

“How… How could this happen? I felt… I felt I was-“

“Pregnant?” asked Murozond, his voice soft. “You were. I have impregnated you so many times. And I shall do it again, my love. And you will experience that joy.”

“That joy?” asked Malygos.

But the moment was stopped when Murozond pushed deeper… And Malygos blanked, gasping for air and trembling. His toes curled, his tail hit the floor… And he almost came. Came like a thousand other Malygos.

“The joy of birthing my Infinites.”

“Your Infinites. I- Why not the Blue-“

“Let’s try again. Shall we?”

-

Again, Deathwing pulled on the chains.

That was pointless, but his mind wouldn’t rest if he didn’t try it. If he didn’t try to break the chains tying him there.

He was… Somewhere. Not on Azeroth, it couldn’t be. He didn’t feel the weight of the Earth upon him, nor the susurrus of the Old Gods. He was somewhere lost, somewhere… Somewhere dark.

In this room, the sole light came from Deathwing’s body.

Even in his bipedal shape, the hulking Dragon still bore the wounds from wielding the Dragon Soul. His flesh, burned to a crisp, was crumbling in parts, revealing his magma-like blood underneath. His chest, with scales black like ebon, glowed like a furnace.

Even his spit had the same glow as magma. As lava dripped on the floor, between his naked legs, to coalesce into a puddle that dripped on the tiled floor before it cooled down and lost its refulgence.

“You would be smarter to kill me. Than to humiliate me,” said Deathwing, as he yanked on the chains again. But his bindings resisted even his strength and fire.

Much like what had been bestowed upon him. Like that cockcage, made of the same metal now making up his jaw. It was a chastity cage, fashioned to resemble a Dragon’s head, and digging into his slit and testicles so it couldn’t slip down.

It was a humiliating wear, much like the machine behind Deathwing pumping inside his ass. There was a constant sound of suction, of his entrance being penetrated… But despite Deathwing wiggling or attempting to smack the machine behind him with his tail, the pumping wouldn’t stop. And the presence was only faint.

The ‘chuck-chuck’ of it weighed on Deathwing’s mind, even in the brief instants when he slept. It was a constant presence, nagging him. Stopping him from resting as he looked around… Trying to get a glimpse of his surroundings.

But only the darkness, the night.

He couldn’t even remember when he ended there. He heard about strange movements around the Dragonflights, from the Blue Dragonflight. The Bronzes had been oddly silent, and the Old Gods whispered something had happened to Nozdormu.

When he tried to assault the Caverns of Time. He ended locked. Jailed. Surrounded by nothing.

It was a prison. But a cruel one, as he couldn’t move much. Strangely, he wasn’t in pain or sore. Or tired. But he certainly felt the humiliation of being bound like… A pet. Or a trophy.

“RELEASE ME! I ORDER YOU!” he roared, magma and flames pouring free from his mouth on the chains. But they wouldn’t melt, and even as they glowed white from the heat… Nothing happened, not even any pain from the Dragon as he watched the glowing metal.

“I already knew you were a senseless traitor. But you have lost your wits, Neltharion.”

“Nobody has called me Neltharion in eons… Brother,” spat Deathwing.

He spat at the feet of the slender and bronze-scaled Dragon. Yet, the poise from Nozdormu was different. And so was his broken smile, or the malice in those eyes.

“Indeed. We should have called you failure, fiend… or worm,” replied Nozdormu.

Those words were sharp. And Deathwing’s mind was now racing. Something was wrong, and he yanked on the chain again.

“Are you afraid?” asked Nozdormu, approaching, one step.

Deathwing’s neck snapped as he turned to his ‘brother’ and opened his mouth. He roared while fire flew towards Nozdormu. Yet, the fire stopped mid-flight, hitting an invisible surface in front of the Bronze Dragon.

A surface that remained as long as Deathwing roared, so long as the flames were spewed and hit that wall. But… In that fight, Deathwing’s breathing was failing.

Every so often, he had to catch his breath to breathe fire once more. And Nozdormu wasn’t even moving a finger or showing signs of exertion.

Ultimately, the Black Dragon’s lungs burned before he collapsed, still on his feet thanks to the chains attached to his knees, ankles, elbows, shoulders, and hands. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t fall. He could only observe Nozdormu approaching, offering him that… Grin.

“You are not Nozdormu. Is that you… The Old Gods… Pet?”

“Quiet,” said ‘Nozdormu’ as he raised a finger.

The instant after, Deathwing roared. His mind was breaking from a splitting headache. The sensation akin to drills going through his eyes and into his skull. But not only that, his own heartbeat was also sending echoes through his body. And… Even his brain felt like it was throbbing inside him.

He cried, roared, craning his neck. And… It stopped. Just as soon. With Nozdormu offering Deathwing a smile.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked with a smile. “I wish I could make you suffer as the others did. But echoes can suffice.”

“Ech… Echo,” grumbled Deathwing. No, all the pain was gone, but his mind was still reeling from the hit. Too shaken by what he’d experienced.

“Yes. Echoes, Brother. Echoes of what you’ve been inflicted with recently.”

Deathwing watched ‘Nozdormu’ wag his finger. He braced himself for the splitting headache. Instead, it was his arms. So painful, he felt like they’d been ripped off, again and again.

His red eyes observed them, observed his arms that were still there. But his brain couldn’t shake off the eerie and surreal sensation of his limbs being ripped away from his body. It was… Stunning. And terrible. And painful.

He gargled, saliva dripping from his mouth even when the pain was gone, and Nozdormu approached him, patting him on the shoulder.

“But I am magnanimous. I, Murozond, propose that you accept to serve me… Instead of your old Gods.”

Deathwing watched how the ‘Bronze Dragon’ moved with flair. But he saw the scars, the old marks all over Murozond’s body. And he scoffed. No, he spat in Murozond’s face.

“Your tricks won’t last, Murozond,” chuckled Deathwing. “You are only an Aspect when Gods support me! Gods who know I, Deathwing, will destr-“

“Yes, yes. Destroy the world and tear it asunder. Good for you,” said Murozond, rolling his blue eyes while Deathwing’s head dropped.

This time, the sensation was his legs being ripped apart. Powerful, stunning. But not real. However, Deathwing’s mind raced. Nozdormu had never employed illusions. This time, it would be the first? Had he been collaborating with Malygos to undo him? The mere thought… Oh, it made Deathwing chuckle despite the pain.

“Something is funny? Neltharion?”

“You… You are employing mind tricks. Bu- But… I will not yield.”

“Really?”

Scrunch.

The sound was real. The pain was real. Everything was real. The smell of blood, his blood. The vision of ripped flesh. Everything was real.

But as he looked back at it, his limbs were there. Still there.

“Nozdormu… Would never do that,” groaned Deathwing, stunned.

“And I am not Nozdormu. Not your… Nozdormu,” huffed Murozond, passing a hand onto Deathwing’s chest. “No. I come from a world where you murdered my Bronze Dragons instead of the Blue Dragons.”

“Weaklings! All of them! You should have-“

Deathwing gasped.

The splitting headache was back with a vengeance. But so was another sensation. His guts were speared, broken, crushed from within. His eyes rolled in their sockets while his legs were about to drop under him, but he wasn’t allowed to.

Instead, he was left staring at the absent ceiling while his ass… Was ripped by the dildo pumping inside him. For how long?

“And you should keep quiet. I have weeks of feedback stored for you. Unless you want to know what it would be to have your cock crushed by the cage?” asked Murozond, his fingers dancing along Deathwing’s thin abdominal waist, right to the elementium cockcage that was digging into his slit.

“You… Never planned to make me submit to you,” finally said Deathwing, squinting at Murozond. “You… Want me to suffer.”

“You’re quick to catch on to this,” replied Murozond, poking at the cage with his claw. “I want you to suffer, Deathwing. For all the deaths you have inflicted upon my flight. And then, when I have tortured you, I want you to lay a thousand more eggs for each of them.”

“Eggs, you-“

“You are not the only one experimenting with breeding, Neltharion,” snapped back Murozond. His movements were careful, calculated as he placed his finger on Neltharion’s exposed abdomen… Right above the bulge formed by the toy pumping inside him.

Neltharion’s jaw clenched as he looked down, despite his bindings.

Sand seemed to flow through Murozond's arms and then into Neltharion’s flesh, until the scales were dug through and then… He could sense something faint within him.

Faint but felt, as the gold sand colored his black scales, forming a shape he’d only seen from primitive civilizations. A womb tattoo. Such a mark was only worn by fertile females in those cultures.

Here it was, etched into his body. And making him scoff before he glanced at Murozond.

“Is that all? What you have learned? To imitate primitives?” asked Neltharion.

“Do not underestimate it,” retorted Murozond while waving his hand.

Neltharion swallowed back his words, certainly regretting having spoken his mind out loud.

Where he’d been experiencing a faint sensation… It was all different.

His abdominal waist was on fire, each grain feeling like a needle piercing down to his guts. The smallest grain found on Azeroth was akin to an oversized drill digging through his body. And they were a multitude, almost an infinity.

He roared, he pulled on his bindings. He breathed fire at the ceiling like a brasero while his legs shifted hardly, small steps by small steps.

“Cease this! You! Vermin!” roared Neltharion, his eyes open wide and his gasps audible.

“Of course.”

It stopped.

Neltharion gasped, his eyes unfocused for a moment before he lowered them onto Murozond, onto the calm and slender Dragon who offered him a smirk while stepping around Neltharion, reaching for that machine he had touched before it vanished as if it’d been nothing but a sandy mirage. Something that never existed.

But there was no more pumping, no more… Hit inside him, nothing that could reduce his pride. And Neltharion chuckled.

“Good. Now-“

“Now, I shall do as I see fit,” said Murozond. He waved his hand.

Neltharion only returned a few moments after it stopped.

After… After a fire. After a heat. After a burning sensation.

After his guts had been ripped apart. After his prostate and other organs had been ruined from within to the point that the puddle between his legs was a mix of red cum and acrid urine.

A shameful display for the Earth-Warder as he gargled and drooled onto his body, his legs and arms tensed in a strange and impossible posture. One that elicited a few applause from Murozond.

“You endured it better than I expected,” he commented with a chuckle.

“What… What was that?” gargled Neltharion, his mind barely cognizant.

“Nothing but… Perhaps decades of abuse. And heat.”

“De-Decades?” groaned Neltharion, his eyes rolling. “What?”

“Oh. Yes. You cannot see time,” chuckled Murozond as he approached, avoiding stepping in the puddle so he could extend one hand with a bubble of sand in it.

One that swirled before it revealed something Neltharion had never seen.

Azeroth, but unburdened. No Old Gods. No war, no conflict. The last pristine, the world at peace, the Black Dragonflight restored under another Aspect. No, every aspect of living peacefully except that he wasn’t here. He wasn’t mentioned. He wasn’t even… Named.

He saw how the heroes from the so-called Council united against the dangers on Azeroth and beyond. The Old Gods were nothing; the Legion was nothing. The Void, the Army of the Light. Everything was naught against that world that was different from what Neltharion foresaw.

He grunted, even watching his creation scour the land, free as the wind. As he spat, he spat towards the orb, but the liquid didn’t hit it.

Instead, the Orb vanished and the spit alongside it, while Murozond offered Neltharion a smile before he grabbed him by the neck.

A powerful grip then crushed Neltharion’s neck, digging even into the elementium-reinforced plates covering his throat.

He gurgled, with one eye half-open, while he felt the digit digging into his flesh, making him bleed as he coughed and wheezed.

“I foresaw that world, and I protected it before Nozdormu attempted to destroy it. Could you imagine? A world where you do not exist?”

“I- How?” coughed Neltharion. “I am… Deathwing. I… Cannot be bested.”

“Your own hubris bested you. Poisoned in your laboratory by your own experiments before they drove you to the void. Nobody saw more. And your corpse rested for eons. But… This is not your story.”

Murozond released his grip. Next, Neltharion cried.

He sensed his limbs were ripped apart from him; the joints giving up while the sheer tension ripped the skin and muscles. It wasn’t happening, but it felt as such.

“I am not Malygos, nor a mage who can make you experience the pain I felt when you killed my flight in my timeline. But I can give you an eternity of pain. Neltharion.”

“You… You’re mad. You- You want me! You want to breed me! That… That mark is for breeding me!” roared Neltharion.

He coughed when Murozond’s hands danced upon his tights, upon his posterior, upon the tail that was lifted before it was stuck in time, no different from paralyzed. Only then, Murozond’s breath was upon Neltharion’s neck, upon the shivering flesh.

“You are smarter than you think. But still pitiable. I do not need that mind,” said Murozond, poking at Neltharion’s temple with his claw, and even if it was but a faint touch, it definitely felt like the claw was drilling through his scales. Through him. “Nobody needs it. You saw it. Without you, the world was better. But… I want you. As much as I want you gone.”

Neltharion roared, feeling that his belly was hurting again. He felt his breath being limited; he felt his legs collapsing under him due to the weight and the exhaustion. He felt his bones breaking and crumbling from age. He felt age. He experienced aging in a way only the eldest Dragons could understand, yet without the boon of growing inured.

He gargled, he coughed, he spat. He trembled, his body the same as before, yet wrecked by pain.

“You are my worst enemy, my poison. Neltharion. I wish I could destroy you; I wish I could erase you. But I can’t… Not because I am unable to,” said Murozond, his own shaft pressing against Neltharion’s posterior, with the tip nudging the bright-red entrance.

“I want you to suffer. I want everyone to see your miserable existence, cry and wither. For you to face the pain you’ve dealt. And I want them to witness how pointless you are…”

“You are demented. They will- Someone will stop you!”

“I am demented. You broke me, Neltharion. My Brother. And I’ll break you. I’ll avenge myself and all you’ve wounded, and force you to birth an army for me. For us.”

“F-Fool!” roared Neltharion before he blanked… Penetrated, abused. Wrecked.

-

Malygos’ breath was definitely the sweetest.

This one enjoyed the same arcwine, and the flavor was delicate yet full of discreet notes only a Dragon attuned to the arcanes could experience. Nozdormu wasn’t one of those. But Murozond had been gifted by an attentive teacger.

The flavor? It was wonderful as he kissed Malygos, feeling the beard tickling his chin before he pulled back and grabbed that leg to push it aside. Just so he could have once more access to Malygos’ sultry hole.

“You are restless. What has gotten to you?” asked Malygos, his voice calm as he peeked at Murozond’s blue eyes. At the tense expression, before the eyes were lowered and… Murozond stroked Malygos’ belly, watched the golden womb etched onto the scales, and then felt the eggs through.

Bumpy and heavy, there were so many, yet… Murozond’s shaft ached and dripped at the edge of Malygos’ swollen asshole, to that entrance winking and puckered from the training.

“I caught another one.”

“You brought another one?” asked Malygos, frowning, and his tail coiled around Murozond’s.

“Yes. I need more for our army.”

“Because we are not enough?”

“Because I want an infinite flight. And you are unique. And finite.”

“Logic. But your behavior is not logical,” replied Malygos with a scoff.

“Indeed.”

Murozond repeated it as he leaned, breathing against Malygos’ neck, his muzzle nudging the chin and beard while his cock plunged deeper and further. While his organ was deeper into that tightened hole. That velvety entrance, Murozond enjoyed with a growl, feeling the inner muscles rushing to clench around his cock and massage it.

“What have you done to him?”

“I broke that one. I do not need his mind,” grumbled Murozond, grunting as he kissed Malygos’ neck and then closed his eyes.

But not his mind. Not to the timeways.

Nozdormu was definitely clenching back, fighting against the penetration, though the conflict was merely a matter of ego.

The glimmer of the gold womb tattoo was practically invisible despite the cream-colored belly. But its magic was powerful. Intense as Murozond plunged inside, while stroking their eggs through the scales.

It was only their eggs, or his, or Nozdormu’s. They were one and the same, and in a way… Only the strongest timeweaver could be produced from this union, as odd as it was.

“If you keep meddling with the timeways, they will collapse.”

“They will not. I am you, but more careful and experienced,” scoffed Murozond, rolling his eyes. At the same time, another him came through and kissed Nozdormu, silencing him.

Then another appeared, helping him keep those legs spread open, those hands busy with cocks. And before long, Murozond was no longer alone in occupying Nozdormu.

Plurality. It was chaotic to maintain, to make sure every course of events would occur without breaking causality. But the result was both edifying and pleasant as he saw Nozdormu, a former self, choking on a kiss while stroking his cock in each hand.

How pleased the Bronze Dragon was while Murozond plunged deeper inside him and felt that hole tightly clench at him.

Tightly… Close onto his cock to stop it from advancing, but with the sole result of making the sensation far more intense. Far more joyful. Far more enthralling as he smiled and humped.

Nozdormu’s ass, his own ass, was definitely wondrous to feel and not only from the ecstatic joy of fucking oneself. No. It was also the tightest of the three by far. And at the same time, he had decided to take a concubine.

And feeling those eggs deeply nestled into those guts was wondrous, heart-warming… And making Murozond’s libido skyrocket while his fingers danced on Nozdormu’s belly.

“Soon. You will have to lay those eggs for me. Our army needs Lords to order the grunts. You do not think?” asked Murozond, with a grin.

And Nozdormu replied with a growl, with a gargle.

“True. Maybe I should handle the grunts.”

_Murozond only had to close his eyes.

T_hen to reopen them on Neltharion, on those angry eyes. On that furious glare. The Black Dragon had been tied with all sorts of contraptions. His arms were attached behind him, his legs spread by a bar while bent. That tail was attached to his neck thanks to a collar. And the whole muzzle was, indeed, muzzled.

Remained then Neltharion’s pride in that tight cage, with Murozond holding it between his fingers. Holding Neltharion’s pride, pulling on it before he smacked those balls.

Neltharion’s muffled roar was as delicious to see as the dilated nostrils.

Murozond smiled, watching the ire and yet the hint of fear in those eyes. The fear as he rarely graced Neltharion. Not with breeding him unless it was necessary. Or if he wanted to gloat.

Murozond wanted to gloat, but not only. Neltharion was more than round; his guts were swollen beyond measure. His belly? Ah, he was the most gravid of all three and as Murozond pumped into that ass, pumped seed into it… Neltharion’s eggs were starting to move and cling together while the muscles were trying to stop the momentum, to halt Murozond’s prodding.

A pointless attempt that left Neltharion gargling and huffing, his voice high-pitched while those eggs were definitely rolling down, following Murozond’s cumshot.

Following the cum that dripped from the entrance before the first egg crowned.

Before the dark egg, covered with a soft black spine, started to push through.

Definitely, those spines and the rough texture were not pleasant to Neltharion, who grunted and was almost on the verge of whining.

Murozond? He smiled as he smacked his cock against the quivering pucker. Against that entrance, holding onto the egg despite Neltharion’s pained expression.

“This is what you forced onto the broodmothers. Not so proud anymore, Neltharion?” chuckled Murozond as he glanced…

And observed his enemy lay his eggs.

He observed them lay their eggs.

He was at the three places at once, all aligned perfectly in his mind. He saw Malygos on his left, the one he cared for the most.

The thoughtful mage who’d been badly wounded in that timeline. Here, he was almost a shell of himself, but one Murozond would guide back to sanity, one step at a time. One he could care for, one he could guide on the path of war without going against his wishes.

The old Blue dragon was already grunting and moaning, his asshole dripping and gaping, while the first egg, of a bright blue with gold accents, was slipping through with rather ease.

All the time they’d spent training Malygos’ ass, stretching it, keeping it well-lubed and hydrated had given the result that his birth was an ease.

Each egg was rewarded by millions of caresses, by millions of kisses. By thousands of strokes that would guide him to a potent and rewarding orgasm. One in which the Blue Dragon would bask in joy while covering his pouch belly until the dozens of eggs were out and collected before being assigned to a few Infinite Dragons.

Even by holding them, Murozond could sense their power within… The mana shifted around their presence as they were birthed from the Aspect of Magic.

They would be the mages who would be in the back, those who would create the enchantments needed for the war. The most precious would be kept away from the frontlines, so that Malygos could be spared the wound of losing his children.

A loss he would spare him, so he could have the world he so desired and so deserved.

Nozdormu was at the center, grunting and huffing.

Though his entrance was trained and prepared, Murozond had no desire to help his counterpart. No, he only had to keep him occupied and pleased. A thorough breeding would compensate for the pain of egg laying, and the promises of it were by the plurality of Murozond going around Nozdormu… Offering him kisses, cocks to worship… And nothing more than raw sex. Than abuse. Than pleasure.

Meanwhile, those golden eggs were rolling fairly easily, only four of them. But as Murozond grabbed them, wiped the slime coating them… he could see their potential. They were like him, practically copies in a way, but not as powerful.

Once guided by his Infinite allies, they would be lords and commanders. Benevolent tyrants are directing the infinite number of wounded worlds that need firm guidance to recover.

And cunning leaders who could lead an army of grunts onto the path of victory.

He handed them before he turned his gaze to the right…

Onto the monsters, onto his worst enemy. This one came from this very timeline, plucked at the moment of his death, only to be kept around.

And he was the most gravid of the three, with his belly bulging and pressing against his legs.

Each of those spiny eggs was painful to bear, coated with slime… And each time, that ass looked like it was about to give out before another egg crowned.

But as Murozond picked those eggs… He was satisfied.

He was satisfied as he continued to look to his right, at the quasi-infinite number of caught Deathwings. In each different timeline, he betrayed his people in a different way.

An infinite number of pregnant Deathwings, all gargling and moaning and trembling. Their minds… They were all collapsed. He had personally brutalized them until they couldn’t speak, act, or even escape.

They were but tools, trinkets, toys. And at the origin of it was the ‘prime’. The first Deathwing he’d captured, his ‘third’ concubine. The one he looked at with a smile as he lifted the egg he held.

“See? This is your future now. Caged, emasculated, impotent, broken. This is what awaits you,” said Murozond as he turned his back on the screaming and kicking Deathwing.

On the Dragon whose voice suddenly climbed one octave as he experienced the many joys of childbirth… From all his fellow selves. Plurality, without control, was a pain to endure.

And the mere thought made Murozond smile as he closed his eyes.

C_arefully stroked the blue egg in his hand._

“You are smitten,” said Malygos, attracting Murozond’s eyes and making him relax. Ease his shoulders and purposefully deposit that egg on one of the many cradles disposed in their domain.

“I am more than smitten. I am elated, Malygos,” said Murozond, climbing back onto his lover’s bed to kiss him. To be between those legs. And once more, to prod that entrance that was now empty and devoid of any eggs.

At the same time, he stroked Malygos’ tummy and felt that hand on his chest.

“Elated? This is what I should say. My children.”

“Our children,” said Murozond, almost correcting it. “I foresaw their futures. And it is beautiful.”

“It is?”

Murozond huffed, descending to kiss Malygos’ chest while he inserted himself within… Already hard, needy, and eager to have another brood of blue eggs.

“It is. I saw a world without mages like you desire, where your children can live in peace, learn magic in their own way, and control the tools they create to help the mortals.”

“Why would they help them?” scoffed Malygos, grunting.

A remark eliciting a blow on his ear.

“Because in your heart, you know not all were cruel or deserved it. And because you wouldn’t refuse your children the freedom to do what they desire.”

“Fool. You are foolish,” scoffed Malygos, stroking Murozond’s back.

“I am. I am not logical, remember?” asked Murozond, giving Malygos’ neck a lick while forcing the blue Dragon to crane his neck… To expose it.

Just so Murozond could bite it.

Not for blood, not for violence. Merely as a reflex, as he penetrated his lover… And bred him, pumped within him. And would want nothing more than to have a new Dragonflight with the one he’d been desiring for so long.

Even someone different, from another world.

Even at the price of his name, his identity, his origin.

To anyone, he was Nozdormu, the Aspect of Time.

But he was Murozond, lover of Malygos, and future Lord of the Infinite Dragonflight.