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Jasper only intended to stay for a few minutes. To clear out anything useful that might have remained in Sybil's old apartment, now that their supplies were beginning to run scarce. It was true, yes, that he had an ulterior motive, but was that truly such a harm? Could he be blamed for wanting to see her again?
Sybil had retracted herself at his touch, spitting out the door just enough that he could wedge it open and slip inside. He attempted to keep it from re-closing completely using an old book, but it would be dangerous to remain any longer than necessary. She was unpredictable now, more like a slime mold than a human being.
Jasper did not mind. She had never stopped being Sybil, and he knew this by the way the ground rumbled under his feet like the purr of a cat.
The only thing left now was Jasper's shotgun, laying on what might have once been a table. Sybil's tendrils lazily danced over it, but were unwilling to assimilate what she must have known still belonged to him. He reached for it anyways, prying off a stray artery to let it wrap around his finger.
I miss you. I hope you're doing well. I haven't finished the work you left behind for me, but we're getting there.
It was a bad idea to stay, and yet… even through the heavy covering of fat and muscle fiber, he knew intimately the outline of this apartment. He had spent so long in it, with her. With Edwin. With the others. Planning road trips. Proofreading essays. Drinking, playing games, making merry enjoyment with the people closest to his heart.
Sybil had long since dissolved most of the room's furnishings, leaving very little of her old life behind. The other astronomers, too, had left everything behind to follow her. But before Jasper returned to his duties of playing cult leader… a few moments to say goodbye. That was all he needed.
He apologized quietly, in case it hurt her, when he sat down against her. She pulsed, feverishly hot, against his back, feelers ripping themselves from where she had stretched herself across the wall in order to curiously wrap around his shoulders. They wriggled their way into his hood, under the bottom of his robe, searching for once-familiar warmth.
After a bit, Sybil grew bolder, poor and flaccid attempts at limbs trailing over his waist and interlocking over his stomach. A hug from someone who loved him. He loved her back tenfold. The scent of copper assaulted his nostrils as her tendrils left trails of mucus along the sides of his face and up his arms.
By the time he realized what she was trying to do, he found himself unable to pull away. Her grip tightened, and the rumbling beneath him grew louder and more irritable. Something snuck beneath the leg of his pants, like a worm lined with suckers and cilia. His hands scrabbled for a hold on something solid but only clenched around soft fatty tissue.
Her slow and languid movements became forceful, suddenly. As if Jasper himself was no lighter than a feather, Sybil pulled him into her, and everything went dark.
Oh. I might die, he thought. This was followed immediately by, well, being dissolved by Sybil is likely a pleasant death compared to everything else happening right now.
It was not that Jasper had lost consciousness. It was that Sybil had enveloped him into the writhing mass of her body, and into the bowels of the building's foundations. There was no light to be found, and the stale air was rank and wet, but Sybil gave him no time to ponder his likely demise and/or inevitable absorption.
Rogue veins and muscle fibers, slick with unknown fluid, slithered over what must have been every millimeter of his face, carding through his hair and prodding at his ears and nostrils. His breath caught in his throat when something small and wormlike snuck into one of the half-formed eye sockets the Visitor had bestowed across his cheeks, before retreating again. No matter which way he moved, his loosely restrained limbs found only more meat, pocked with herniating fat.
He was helpless to do anything but ride the rolling waves of her musculature and pray, terrified, that she would not become too careless or adventurous.
Thankfully, Sybil seemed to have her curiosity sated before she could seriously injure him. Instead, she allowed herself to explore further below. Jasper, truthfully, had no idea at what point he had become unclothed, or whether his clothes had been removed or simply dissolved. Both seemed equally plausible at this point. What he was certain of, if nothing else, was that Sybil was looking for something. Exploratory prodding became purposeful, and her feelers drew downwards along the sides of Jasper's chest, settling on the expanse of his stomach. The touch of a lover. The touch of a friend.
His body must have been familiar to her, still. Enveloped as he was in her viscera, her roaming tendrils knew exactly where he liked to be touched, and her arteries settled in the grooved stretch marks of his arms, where the Visitor had once tried to pull him apart at the seams. They entwined around his fingers as if grasping for his hands, while Sybil's pulsing entrails continued their journey south.
He jolted, legs kicking out, when she found her target, and warmth flooded to his already-hot face.
Jasper was not a man who especially enjoyed sex, or who sought it out at all. His forays with Sybil and Edwin had largely been in their youth, when Jasper still thought he might glean some enjoyment out of their arrangement. Beyond that point it had been merely skinship, unless Sybil asked otherwise of him.
She had, however, asked otherwise on a great many occasions, and he had given himself up freely for her. Clearly, now, she was asking him anew.
Held in her gentle embrace, Jasper had no words with which to dissuade her. His heart hammered in his chest and crawled up his throat as slimy appendages wound around his pelvis, enveloping the most sensitive parts of him. It wasn't as if she had never touched him like this before— but it was different now, and self-apparently so.
He opened his mouth to suck in a breath, and even that seemed to be dangerous. Sensing a part of Jasper yet unexplored, something gripped his jaw and forced itself past his lips, fingers and tendrils against his teeth, under his tongue, nearly choking him. Tears perked up in the corners of seventeen eyes as he gagged, throat closing up around her.
From the other end, undulating feelers found his rear, and, slippery with mucus, pressed into him.
It was disgusting, and it was perverse. And yet, some equally disgusting and perverse part of him liked this. He liked that Sybil, even in this state, had not lost her desire, or her stubborn nature. He liked that she had never stopped wanting him, even in the ways he was unable to truly reciprocate.
It was impossible to pay attention to every part of her affections at once. His skin, nerves overshot, burned at every touch, and oh, did Sybil touch him!
Something thin and squishy emerged from the tidal wave of sensation, prodding firmly at his urethra, and he instinctively moved to jerk his hips back. Sybil, obstinate as she was, only held him firmly in place. Her fleshy restraints tightened around his limbs. His body did not welcome the intrusion, and sharp pain rattled his entire body as she forced himself inside him. A pained gag worked its way up to his throat, but there was no stopping her, and truthfully, he wasn't sure he wanted her to. Urine, hot and thinner in viscosity than the slime Sybil seemed to be coated with, dampened his crotch and the backs of his legs. Whatever appendage it was, it had writhed its way past his sphincters into his bladder, heavy in his belly.
Jasper, as loath as he might have been to admit it, reveled in this powerlessness. He did not care for sex. But he cared for Sybil. He ached for his responsibilities, his woes, his worries, to be cornered on all sides by her all-encompassing touch. He ached to please her. Most of all, he ached to ache, and to have someone worth aching for.
His throat was sore, his bladder cramped terribly, his stomach seized and flipped— he could feel each of her movements intimately, and simultaneously, not at all. Sybil had wormed her way so deeply inside of him that he could not pinpoint where her body stopped and his began, as if she could grasp her hands together in his belly.
Just the same as she had taken Jasper inside her, she was inside him, in every way he could bear. And she did not cease to be so.
It was by no means orgasmic. Although he teetered on the edge more than once, any bodily pleasure he felt was tamped out by discomfort before it could spill over. It was, however, pleasure all the same to Jasper, who could think of no greater indulgence than being so close to Sybil as to be indistinguishable from her.
The pain lulled him into a dull trance, before a jolt of pleasure brought him back to awareness, over and over again in an endless cycle. The passage of time itself seemed to cease in that dark, wet embrace, and Jasper finally lost consciousness.
Beryl had gotten used to the… meat. Whatever the hell the sludge was, the viscera eating up the garage. She didn't really want to call it Sybil, at least. Felt disrespectful. She stepped over a bundle of it as she made her way through the rows of cars, checking the doors to see if anything had been left unlocked— or if it would be up to her to break in to look for supplies.
Already on edge, she startled with a yelp as a sickening, wet noise echoed throughout the garage, before quieting again.
Beryl paused, unsure of if she should ignore it. Ignoring it was probably a bad idea, given how many murderous-at-best critters had taken up residence in the dark corners of the basement.
The sound came again, more loudly, and the building creaked.
…Yuck. Yeah, okay, sure. She set her crowbar atop the back of the car and wove through the rows of abandoned SUVs to one of the inner walls, where the sludge had eaten through the pillars and rooted itself to the ground.
Beryl squinted.
She couldn't see anything. It was just, like. A wall of meat. Well, no, it was undulating slightly, which was disconcerting, but there wasn't much to do about that.
She turned to walk away again, but paused in her tracks when something behind her cracked. She whipped her head around just in time to see part of the wall of viscera sag in upon itself, splitting open like raw dough. It puckered, and in the span of a few seconds, something— person-shaped— shot out in a manner Beryl could only compare to a horse giving birth. Which was some seriously unpleasant imagery and actually hey wait hang on a second.
"Jasper?"
Ohhhh, shit, that was definitely Jasper. Butt-naked, no less! She winced, out of both immense concern and considerable secondhand embarrassment.
Jasper laid there, unmoving, and after a long moment, Beryl started to worry he was dead. Then he let out a groan, rolling himself over onto his hands and knees, curly hair weighed down with slime and curtaining his face. He seemed tiny, somehow, particularly in comparison to the meat-behemoth that had regurgitated him.
The great parking lot leviathan spat a second time, and Jasper's mask skittered across the floor of the garage like a pebble on the surface of water.
"Dude," she said, before she could think of anything kinder or more eloquent. "What the fuck."