Chapter 10: Aftercare Amongst the Stars - A Moment's Peace
The routine was new, but it was fine.
Hunter woke each morning in Isaiah’s old apartment, the scent of him—laundry soap and a specific brand of cheap cologne—still lingering in the curtains. He’d make coffee, stare at the empty chair across the table, and try not to think about the exact texture of a throat beneath his flaming hands. Then Morag would arrive, smelling of ozone and dried herbs, and they’d go to work.
The days were brutal, simple, and oddly satisfying. They’d track a Shriek-Stalker through the sewers, its form a shifting mass of shadows and broken piano wire. Hunter would corner it, feel the heat build in his palms—a furnace nestled behind his sternum—and unleash a torrent of white-hot fire that left behind only ash and the faint smell of burnt music. Or they’d find a Glutton-Node feasting on the grief of a mourning family, a pulsating sac of tears and regret, and Morag would chant words that made Hunter’s teeth ache while he torched the thing from the inside out. They collected bounties from terrified town councils, gold coins and sometimes strange artifacts that Morag would pocket with a grunt. It was honest work.
Then, as the mortal world dimmed, the transition would come. A specific charge in the air, a pull behind his navel, and the apartment would melt away into corridors of singing light.
Heaven.
His hour.
Today, he had two.
The chamber wasn’t the Throne Room. It was smaller, private. A receiving room of sorts, with plush carpets and walls that seemed to be made of solidified twilight. A large, ornate screen played Isaiah’s favorite movie, some old romantic comedy from the 90s, the sound tinny and comforting.
Isaiah was waiting for him on a wide, low divan, propped up by velvet cushions. The uniform was the same: the white collar, the gag, the stockings, the mitts, the crown. His soft grey wings were tucked neatly against his back. His belly, perpetually rounded, shifted slightly with the movement of the lives within. An Empty stood sentinel in the corner, its smooth cock already erect and gleaming.
But Isaiah’s eyes, above the gag, were bright. Happy. They crinkled at the corners.
“Hey, Izzy,” Hunter said, his voice rough. He shucked his jacket, stained with monster ichor and sweat, and let it fall to the floor. He didn’t bother with preamble. The clock was ticking.
He knelt on the divan, his knees sinking into the soft fabric. Isaiah made a soft, eager sound and shifted, presenting himself. Hunter undid his jeans, freed his aching cock. He guided himself to Isaiah’s entrance, already wet and glistening, already stretched from the day’s continuous use. He pushed in with a single, deep stroke, a sigh escaping them both.
Isaiah sank back onto him, his body accepting Hunter with a practiced, perfect ease. He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm, riding Hunter’s length as the movie’s opening credits rolled. His pussy was impossibly warm, slick, a clenching, velvety heat that made Hunter’s vision blur for a second. He wrapped his arms around Isaiah’s waist, his big hands splaying over the swell of his belly, feeling the firm, alive curve of it.
“Missed you,” Hunter mumbled into the back of Isaiah’s collared neck, pressing his lips to the skin there. He inhaled the scent of him—milk, ozone, sex. “Fucking… Shriek-Stalker today. Nasty piece of work. Tried to imitate a crying baby.”
Isaiah hummed around his gag, a questioning sound, his hips continuing their lazy, up-and-down motion. The sloppy, wet sounds of their joining mixed with the movie’s cheesy synth soundtrack.
“Burnt it to a crisp,” Hunter said, nuzzling his beard against Isaiah’s hair. He kissed the shell of his ear. “Morag says I’m getting better control. Less setting random shit on fire.”
He let his hands drift up Isaiah’s sides, over the soft give of his ribs, until his thumbs brushed the undersides of Isaiah’s breasts. They were fuller now, heavy. He cupped them, feeling the weight. His fingers found the opal plugs nestled in the large, puffy nipples. They were warm to the touch, almost alive.
“These things still freaky me out,” Hunter murmured, idly tracing the smooth gemstones. Isaiah leaned into the touch, a contented sigh vibrating through his chest. On screen, the two leads were meeting cute over a spilled coffee.
Curiosity, mixed with a deep, tender affection, took over. Hunter carefully took one opal between his thumb and forefinger. It was fitted snugly, like a stopper in a bottle. He gave a gentle, experimental tug.
It came free with a soft, wet pop.
Instantly, a thin, pearlescent stream of milk arced out, hitting Hunter’s wrist. It was warm. Isaiah gasped, his body tensing, his cunt squeezing Hunter’s cock in a sudden, delicious vice. Hunter brought his wrist to his mouth, licking the milk. It was sweet, impossibly rich, with a faint hint of something like starlight.
“Holy shit, Izzy,” Hunter breathed. He leaned forward, taking the leaking nipple into his mouth. He suckled, gently at first, then with more pressure. The milk flowed freely, flooding his mouth with that incredible sweetness. Isaiah whimpered, high and keening, his hips stuttering, his rhythm breaking into little, desperate grinds. He was moaning constantly around the gag, his body singing with pleasure.
Hunter drank deeply, swallowing again and again, one hand still massaging the other breast, rolling the remaining plug between his fingers. He pulled off with a wet sound, milk beading on his mustache. “You taste… fuck, you taste amazing.”
Isaiah whined, pushing his chest forward, begging silently for more. Hunter obliged, switching sides, removing the other plug and latching on. He drank until his throat was coated with the sweetness, until Isaiah was a trembling, mewling mess above him, bouncing on his cock with abandon, drool soaking the gag.
Hunter finally released the nipple, panting. He looked at Isaiah’s face, at the tears of pure bliss tracking through the drool on his cheeks. He smiled, a genuine, warm thing. “You know,” he said, his voice rough with arousal and affection, “you’d make a great mom. Seriously. Lactation champion.”
The effect was instantaneous. Isaiah’s eyes flew open wide, then fluttered shut. A deep, shuddering moan tore from his gagged throat, long and broken. He rode Hunter with a new, frantic intensity, his hips slamming down, taking Hunter deep, his pussy fluttering and clenching in rhythmic, powerful waves. He was coming, his body convulsing in a silent, overwhelming orgasm that seemed to go on and on, milk still trickling from his exposed nipples.
Hunter held him through it, clutching him close, whispering nonsense into his ear. “That’s it, baby… let go… fuck, you feel so good… my perfect Izzy…”
When Isaiah finally stilled, boneless and breathing hard, Hunter began to move again, setting a slower, deeper pace. This wasn’t just fucking for seed or out of desperation. This was closer. His hands roamed Isaiah’s belly, his sides, the sensitive joints of his wings. He kissed every part of him he could reach—the collar, the strip of skin above the stockings, the trembling muscles of his back. He made love to him, in the most twisted, beautiful way possible, there on a divine divan while Meg Ryan faux-laughed on a screen.
They came together, eventually. Hunter’s release was a deep, groaning thing, pumping his come into Isaiah’s already-filled womb, a purely emotional claiming. Isaiah followed him over, another softer, satiated climax rippling through his exhausted body.
For a long time after, they just stayed like that, connected, Hunter softening inside Isaiah’s warmth, his arms wrapped around him in a protective hug. They watched the rest of the movie in silence, Isaiah’s head lolling back against Hunter’s shoulder.
A shift in the light signaled the end of the second hour.
Metagos appeared not with a flash, but as if he’d always been standing by the door. He looked… domestic. Almost bored. His divine radiance was muted.
“Time,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Hunter nodded, carefully extracting himself. Isaiah made a small, bereft sound as Hunter’s cock slipped free, a mixture of their spend trailing after him. Hunter gently rearranged Isaiah’s limp form on the divan, then stood, tucking himself away.
Metagos approached. His movements were surprisingly gentle. He scooped Isaiah into his arms as one might lift a sleeping child. Isaiah went bonelessly, nuzzling into his father’s chest. Metagos sat on the very spot Hunter had just vacated. Without ceremony, he positioned Isaiah over his lap, guided his own, already-stiff cock to Isaiah’s used, dripping entrance, and eased him down. Isaiah sighed, a sound of resigned comfort, and settled against the god’s broad chest as he was filled anew.
The Empty in the corner simply faded away.
“Morag tells me you incinerated a Shriek-Stalker today,” Metagos said conversationally, his large hand stroking Isaiah’s hair as he began a slow, steady bounce of his hips.
Hunter, cleaning himself up with a cloth from a nearby basin, blinked. “Uh. Yeah. She, uh, she told you?”
“She reports. It is efficient.” Metagos watched Isaiah’s face, his thumb wiping a streak of milk from his chin. “Their sonic attack can shatter mortal bone. You did well not to let it scream.”
“It tried.”
“And you prevented it. Good.” Metagos adjusted his grip, lifting Isaiah slightly and sinking him back down, drawing a soft moan. “The bounty from the township of Barlow’s Creek. The gold is adequate?”
Hunter stared. He was having a post-coital chat with a deity who was currently re-impregnating his best friend. “It… yeah. It’s fine. We got what we asked for.”
“See that you do. Exploitation breeds resentment. Resentment breeds cults. Cults are… messy.” Metagos spoke as if discussing the weather. Isaiah’s breaths were becoming deeper, his body relaxing fully into the rhythm of his father’s cock. He was almost asleep.
“Right. No cults.” Hunter pulled on his shirt, feeling surreal.
“Your control improves. The fire is less a wildfire and more a tool. This is preferable.” Metagos looked up from Isaiah, his ancient eyes meeting Hunter’s. There was no kindness there, but a pragmatic acknowledgment. “Keep him happy in your hour. It makes the rest of his duty smoother. Less strain on the vessel.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. “He’s not a vessel to me.”
“I know,” Metagos said, and it wasn’t a concession; it was a fact. “That is why you are useful.”
The conversation lapsed. The only sounds were the faint dialogue from the movie’s ending and the wet, soft sounds of Metagos’s continued, gentle thrusts. Isaiah was fully asleep now, cradled and fucked in his father’s lap.
“You may go,” Metagos said, not unkindly.
Hunter gave one last, long look at Isaiah’s peaceful face. He leaned in, ignoring the god, and pressed a final kiss to his temple. “See you tomorrow, Izzy.”
Then he turned, and Metagos, still gently fucking his sleeping son, walked him to the threshold of the chamber.
“Tomorrow,” Metagos agreed.
And Hunter stepped from the singing halls of Heaven back into the quiet, dim smell of Isaiah’s apartment, the taste of starlight milk still on his tongue.