Vastness (Commission for Luther-Bat)

He was growing.

A simple statement, yet the most defining characteristic for the giant; hell, even the word giant itself wasn’t enough to begin to describe the immenseness that was even the smallest portion of the tiniest fraction of the bat’s body. It couldn’t be adequately described as a body at all as much as it was the backdrop for all of reality, the colossus’ mere existence enough to warp and distort what was into whatever served to make him even greater, an act that itself strained the boundaries of what was even achievable from a theoretical standpoint.

To a certain degree, it was wholly predictable and not at all anything spectacular in theory; he was “merely” growing, after all. What made it the mindbending spectacle of debauchery that it happened to be was the scale at which it operated, it being of such incomprehensible size that even the greatest and most learned of his devotees could barely begin to comprehend it, let alone put it to words. Comparing any part of Luther to anything else was an exercise in futility, for in the time it took for that thought to form, the comparison itself ceased to be meaningful in any way.

His growth was explosive and exponential, stacked onto itself towards infinity in a way that defied all logic and reason. Every moment that passed made him that much bigger than what he was a mere instant before that the difference itself became impossible to describe, until eventually the rate of acceleration itself began to tear at the very fabric of reality, existence itself unable to comprehend how anything, much less anyone of that size could be growing even larger. For Luther though, it was a simple expression of who he was, a fundamental truth that he made sure everyone knew, even if it was enough to collapse their brains into a black hole just from trying to process too much information at once. At any given moment, he exploded with enough size that his form was comparatively bigger to his last one as that last one was to any one of its constituent atoms, a means of comparison that itself became increasingly inadequate as the eternal tower of exponentials became impossible to express in regular numbers.

If every atom of every universe of every timeline that he devoured in every microsecond was inscribed with a single digit, it still wouldn’t be enough to describe a fraction of what he was, and even if such a task could be done instantly, it still would fail to keep up with the constantly-accelerating rate at which Luther overtook reality, though it was doubtful such a thing would ever happen; after all, if nothing else was left, there was still him, and his will alone could probably keep him going for as long as he needed to.

The experience was hard to describe, even for someone as divine as the bat, who had been going through it for as long as he could remember existing. It was simultaneously soothing and mind-shattering, calming and mind-bending; if on one hand he saw it as merely an expression of his perfect self, on the other he still experienced it for what it truly was: an ascension of proportions so unimaginable that his mind had trouble processing even the smallest part of it. At any given point, he could be seen (for lack of a better word) with his face transfixed in utter bliss, brain wracked by a flood of endorphins of enough volume to completely fill entire multiversal clusters, unable to say anything as his body took that as a cue to grow even faster, the signals it received telling it to feed back into the vicious cycle that had prolonged itself for eternity.

His existence was nothing if not orgasmic bliss, locked as he was in an endless torrent of overwhelmingly powerful sensations that only got worse the bigger he became. He had to come up with new ways of describing the vast swaths of reality that he destroyed on a regular basis; multiversal megaclusters just didn’t cut it anymore, as he routinely got rid of those purely by gently flexing one of his arms, to say nothing of the kind of devastation wreaked by his whole body exploding outwards every femtosecond. To be fair, it was impossible to describe, mostly because he had transcended mere space and had long-since invaded the concept of time; to a certain degree, he was almost certain that all those timelines he was collapsing into himself were causing a lot of that exponential explosion he was going through, though obviously his mind was too occupied constantly reeling from the growth itself to care too much about the physics and metaphysics of it all.

What mattered was that he needed to be bigger. He needed his body to be on such a scale that even using himself wasn’t enough. He needed to grow so quickly that nothing, absolutely nothing could serve as a measuring rod… and then he wanted to grow even faster than that. He got his wish as well, every second of every day, constantly plowing through that self-imposed milestone and yet carrying on like it was nothing, reality fraying at the edges from the constant strain of having to contain a specimen like him. In the very few instances where Luther successfully placed some amount of his focus on any one part of him, it would be blown away by the impossibility of holding it there for more than an infinitesimally small fraction of time; if he could perceive one of his pectoral muscles in one moment, in the next it would be so far “above” him that he had no means of truly knowing just how big it was, and by the time he came to that realization, it was even grander still. He was growing, and yet the word itself failed to do justice to the very process that was continuously remaking him into a greater and greater being of mind-wrecking power.

Sometimes, though, existence tried to make some sense of it all; emphasis on “tried”, because it was a pointless endeavour that would get it absolutely nowhere. Gone were the days when the totality of meta-reality could at least manifest itself around him, being a separate entity from the growing, all-consuming giant; they were so far past him that even Luther himself couldn’t recall them with any degree of certainty, unsure that they ever even existed to begin with. Now, only sections of him were ever truly interacting with anything else; the last time existence tried to reboot itself, it ended up wrapping itself around his shaft… or at least part of it, seeing as the damned thing was bigger than the rest of him put together. A small section of his cock was the place chosen for the fabric of existence to try and weave itself back together, at least until he had another instant of growth and the whole thing went down the metaphysical drain, a momentary reminder of what was probably the most painfully delicious part of his continuous ascension.

Every other part of him walked the tight line between horrifying and pleasurable, swinging from him despairing at the complete loss of control over his own growth, and riding that wave for all it was worth until there was nothing else left in his head. The pendulum wasn’t really balanced, either; rather than spending an equal amount of time in either camp, the bat had a disproportionate amount of time occupied by the sensations of overwhelming vastness that made up his being, only occasionally dipping back down into “reason” to wonder what the hell was going on with him, and why reality failed to bring itself back together for more than a handful of seconds at a time. It was no longer within his control, but it was far from painful; in fact, the longer it went on, the more pleasure the bat found in it.

The sounds helped, in all honesty. If there was one thing he could count on to remain constant, if nothing else did, it was the noises he had to deal with. Who knew how that even worked, when even the smallest fraction of the tiniest section of the tip of one of his claws was enough to fill up a multitude of multiverses, but he could feel it, hear it with each heartbeat. It was a wave that coursed through his body, pulsating and throbbing, forcing more and more mass to accumulate from nowhere as countless timelines crashed into him and dumped all they were and could be into his growing form. Of special note was the body-encompassing rod he sported, as well as the titanic orbs underneath; if he were to reduce himself to the point where floors mattered to him, he’d be unable to walk with the size of those things, easily three or four times as large as he himself was and only growing further away still in terms of proportions. The cock attached to his base was no slouch either, and both halves of his package just seemed to swell to greater extents whenever that rhythmic pulse hit them.

It was becoming hard to tell where everything ended and he began; to a certain point, everything “below” him was turning into nothing but his cum factories, while everything “above” was becoming a solid roof of his seed, constantly pouring out from his twitching rod as his body scrambled to find some way to alleviate the pressure inside of him. It was useless, of course; no matter how much cum he pumped into whatever medium he was in, it would never satisfy the endlessly-spiking production going on inside of his nuts, which still managed to grow despite being in full flow. In fact, he wondered sometimes if that was the main reason for his shaft to be swelling as hard as it was, having to deal with the immeasurable, universe-filling, reality-blotting loads being pumped into it every instant, every moment of his life.

Then again, this was only when he could see it, of course; some people had issues with weight covering up their package, he mostly had a problem with his musculature growing out of control before “evening out” throughout his body. As mentioned, having his pectorals completely bury his body or his neck bulk out so much that he could barely breathe were regular occurrences for him, made even more delicious by the knowledge that a single tendon in all of that enormity was probably long enough to wind around the entirety of meta-existence and still have enough left to wrap it all up in a neat little bow.

But none of it mattered, really, because whenever he had any of these thoughts, they became irrelevant almost instantly afterwards. It might’ve been aeons or mere seconds, but even the occasional attempts by reality to restart itself didn’t even register anymore, leaving him alone with himself, his body and the constant bloating surges that made him up. It wasn’t even fair to describe him as having a body as much as it was everything else that had Luther; what he was, so was everything else, and everything else was thus growing at an infinitely quicker pace at any given moment, a backdrop of fur, muscle and fluids that refused to slow down even for itself, struggling to hold its form in one coherent piece. For the bat, it was a constant struggle to keep awake, to not succumb to the pleasure overload; not necessarily for any practical reason, but purely so he could experience it for just another second more. This much was his truth: the bat lived in the moment, no longer capable of thinking about the past or future; everything was a fight, a war he waged against his own body so that he could feel himself growing, burgeoning, bloating, swelling, becoming ever greater at insane speeds.

And each moment, it was even faster. And it had barely begun.