The shadows hung thick in the air, as he wrested control over his breath. Her hands were so small, so nimble, but they still dug fiercely into his windpipe all the same. He felt like he should be more panicked, more desperate, or more ecstatic towards life, but all he could feel was a strange sense of resignation.
He could see her aura, after all. He knew how much she cared, now, and he had no fear. For what was death? A cessation of breath? A stilling of pulse, or the evacuation of the bowels? Surely there was nothing so terrible in this.
Was it the loss of consciousness, or the resignation of control to an unknowable state of being that no one has true understanding of? If these were the cause of fear, then he lived in the presence of that same engrained terror every night, when he went to sleep.
He would close his eyes, and in the stead of comforting darkness there would be the glowering eye of Azathoth, hanging in the space fare overhead. He was far too grand to be consciously interred. His very existence would challenge everything one took for granted in the summation of natural order.
So, there was no fear in his eyes as he stared into the face of Sylvia, whose strained features stretched so anguishedly. Sweat pored over her face, pooling in the wrinkles of her brow, and dribbling down the bridge of her nose. His hands rested carefully by his sides.
He would accept this part of her, as well.—Her rage, her anger—He was the source for most of it, so it seemed only fair that he would soak up the majority of punishment. Also, to be quite frank, it excited him.
"Stop looking at me like that," she hissed down at him, incredulously. "What do you have to be so fucking happy about, anyways?!"
He didn't mean to be smirking so broadly, but he couldn't help it. She would have never laid a hand on him before, so this was proof—PROOF!—that the procedure had worked. He had worked his magic on her, and taken the parasite out of his friend's body, for sure. He had saved her, and even if he died, that would not ever be undone.
She shook her head, sending flecks of sweet-smelling droplets showering down across his face and lips. He stuck out his tongue and tasted her sweat, with a knowing look across his face. Outraged at this showing of complete lack of perturbation, she throttled him roughly, taking care not to relax her grip on his throat for even a second.
He couldn't help but smile more broadly at this rough treatment. It was beginning to dawn on her just how much he was getting off on this, and at that thought she could no longer contain herself either. She crashed her face back into his, returning her aura to a blinding hot wave of passionate rapture, as he returned the kiss with equal gusto.
When he wrapped his arms around her back, she finally released her grasp enough for him to finally shake the spots clear from his vision. He couldn't tear his face away, for fear of souring the mood he had inspired unwittingly, but he was thankful of it because that filled every breath with the haunting scent of her skin, her hair, her breath.
Before long, they found themselves cast aside and boneless under the darkness of an incoming thunderstorm. He was gathering up every random bit of clothing to move over to the most sheltered part of the structure; a corner that seemed to have no wetness at all. It looked like rain.
She didn't respond yet, her breasts heaving in time with the rising and falling of her chest from breaths that could hardly be described as conscious. He stared at her aura, and within that chest glimmered a sparkle of lust about as intense as a flickering ember for a doused firework.
Every ounce of tightened muscle and honed flesh was beaten and tenderized by his illimitable brunt. He had proven himself as up to the task of sating her every carnal desire, this time at least. The black sky crawled and trembled with the force of lightning as it arced across from one horizon to the next. She shuddered involuntarily from a million miles away, from the torture her body had undertaken.
Black droplets began to fall outside from their fragile little refuge, so he thought quickly, and draped his shirt over her limbless form, to shelter her from the incoming torrent. "What a gentleman," she groaned, fully regretting every life choice that she had made in her short 16 years of existence. She probably meant it, but the words sounded awfully facetious coming from such a tarnished expression. "I suppose... I could have done worse for a dance partner, after all." and she smiled.
She didn't regret his actions, of course. Not one bit! He had done absolutely nothing wrong, and fulfilled her every desire to the letter. That was likely the problem, as she had no idea what the consequences of those rapturous fantasies actually were—and those consequences more certainly did exist!—as she was coming to realize now.
They were so woefully compatible, that she hadn't noticed how far she had overextended herself within her veracity. Her appetite had outpaced her durability in many ways. New, novel ways to experience pain were her cheerful companions. That second time was almost certainly overkill. To think he had to talk her down from a third, and a fourth.
"I'm glad to hear the raving reviews," he replied, sardonically. "I certainly paid the price for it, so at least somehow, you had fun."
"Oh, do shut up!" She snapped.
"You have no idea what you've done to me, alright? I don't want to hear a single word out of you, 'ohh, I got a little boo-boo on my backside!' Grow up, crybaby."
He didn't even dignify her foolish retorts with a response. He knew she knew every sick and unimaginable thing she had done to him, and strangulation was not the worst of it. She had despoiled every single private fathom that he had left. There was nothing left for another man or woman to awaken in him.
It was almost impressive, the speed at which she stole his innocence from him. The calculating efficiency necessary to roll over the entire library of fetishes within the span of one or two sessions was a feat of indomitable will and focus. He no longer had any doubts as to why Azathoth chose her, before him, in the slightest.
His so-called dance partner was just as powerful and merciless as the god who drained her powers daily. No, instead of lashing back, he simply grabbed her right arm, and looped it over his shoulder. He wasn't strong enough to carry her, but he could aid her onto her feet, and hobble together into the same corner as their clothing.
She drew her lips into a thin line, and turned away from him, as she remembered why she had fallen for him to begin with. "Dammit, you're no fun." she pouted, gleaming like an angler fish in the depths of the Marianas Trench.
"You're welcome, too. Ow!"
She poked him hard, in the ribs. "I don't remember asking for your help." but she didn't push him away, either. She leaned further onto his slender frame, actually. The only thing she could have wanted more, was a wheelchair.
"Dammit, you jabbed me right in the bite mark!" he hissed, covering the lancing circle with his unoccupied hand. He opened up his mouth to say something further, but the sky turned another shade of darkness as if someone simply placed an opaque filter between their town and the sun. Within seconds, the sounds of torrential downpour filled their ears, and droplets eked their way into the gaps between the boards of the small space.
A few drops of the thick, oily substance splashed onto their naked frames before they found the safety in that corner. "Eugh!" she cried, wiping the fluid off her shoulder with a spare hand. It clung and stretched between her fingers like mucus, but it was black, like tar. "What is this stuff?!"
It reminded him of the creature, so he could guess that it had something to do with the form of Azathoth hanging in the air overhead, but he admitted, truthfully— "I don't know."
A heavy deluge of warm blackened murk fell on the town, in volumes that would quicken the spirit to witness. Potted plants became clogged with the substance, and every inch of earth was buried in an inch thick layer of the writhing, foaming sludge. Then, it seemed to travel as if with a single mind, in a single direction. Uphill, out of gutters, it didn't matter. The wave crawled its way toward a single dilapidated forest shed.