-Disclaimer: This story is not suitable for minors. I do not own any of the characters herein depicted, (not even Ann Weying in all her easily killed off, no emotional reverberation fleetingness... shame.) All characters depicted belong to The Walt Disney Company.-
-Introduction: Please bear in mind, if you do intend to read this story and the parts that follow: it is a grown up story, it will (in later parts) address issues unsuitable for the "under 18", the "19 and over" or those aged "18" and I would hope that you would try your best to understand what I'm trying to do. I believe in writing with the full incorporation of the imagination, wisdom and vocabulary and that might make for some scenes of a disturbing nature for one of any number of reasons. Please try and enjoy and if you did, I'd love to hear your thoughts!-
"Here?" The buttresses seemed to straddle perception, fading into the hanging murk out beyond the candles' golden corona; candles... A tall woman, blessed with pure blue eyes and the most gloriously true, flaxen hair; she glanced down to the waxwork sculpture in her hands.
"This is it Edward?" The sound of high heels clattering cold stone reverberated through the vaulted space, she musing to herself in this lonely place:
"This is where you came to kill yourself?" A single tear escaping, a glimmering instant that struck the unforgiving sheer-cold stone floor and dissapeared just as fleetingly.
Returning to silence and stillness, desolation and mourning, an air of pure reverence towards the inspiration of the cavern fell like a thick velvet curtain on a life's final act.
Ann Weying fell to her knees on the steps of the altar, an unmarked spot - no flowers nor messages of respect for her mate, fallen from grace. No family or friends, it was just them... and where did that leave her?
She silently wept, lips curling at the taste of life's lemons, wrinkles splaying forth with disregard for what little that mattered left in the world, her husband was dead! She was alone! She choked on her tears and flooded the vaulted space with a wretched scream so fierce the ambiance broke with her voice.
She thrashed at her mate's immovable gravestone floor, roaring with a passion that had offered no consolation, no reprieve nor surrogate feeling for the hole that she let forth into this holiest of places and that ate her alive from the inside out.
Coiling back - on her knees - on a floor so cold it didn't matter, in a space so distant it didn't matter, amidst a silence so pure it didn't matter, "Where do I go from here? Eddieee!" She wailed pitifully, clutching her tender digits into fists so tense she could smash through the universe with the passion she bestowed on them.
She rocked in tears, squinting up into the hovering light of the haunting church sanctuary, pouring her soul out, thrashing the empirical breast of the universe, helplessly pushing for something; reason, solace, help?
Sniffling, the isolated, emotional being - like a sapphire set in a buckled ring - tried to calm herself, drawing every ounce of strength to reign in her demons.
Struggling for somewhere to look, for something to say or do, eyes of brilliant azure drew to a stain, amorphous and varnished into the heavy stone - no larger than a flannel's breadth - and dark enough to be.
Shuffling clumsily and handling the stale stone how a mutt treasures its favourite toy in the aftermath of an epic tug-battle.
She couldn't explain her actions, it was filthy, it was dusty and almost-but-not-quite still gooey, but her instinct told her this was where he fell, she envisioned the moment he collapsed, clutching his broken heart, his knotted mind probably shattering within his skull as he crashed to the ground empty and lifeless.
Her nails scratched the surface with the sensation of ice shooting through her veins, skipping off the subtle contours of the rock with a noise that bit through the grief she exuded like a hormone secreted through her very chassis.
She ate her fillings with the vigour of her gritted fangs, bitten until the sound of pressure attacking her inner ear screamed profanities at her.
She scraped, over and over, harder and harder, assaulting the world through her self-harming exercise, besetting it with a force her head told her could never be equalled.
She gouged and gouged until - in a vindicating moment of sadistic pleasure - an index finger spurted its contents via the fingernail imbedding itself at an acute angle in it. She gasped and felt like screaming, a different sort of pain, a pure pain, a distraction.
But Ann would not relent, she couldn't, she wouldn't. She panted and wept and swore at it, feeling the give of something beneath her numb red-raw digits, over and over giving passion to the practise.
With a weep and a pant, she drew her fingertips along the friction-warmed surface, heaving and clenching her fists, simply crying, crying in pain, in guilt, in self-absorbed pity she never had hoped to know.
"Why did you leave me, Eddie? Why!" She sobbed at no-one and nothing. She stroked the stone so pitted and inscribed in improvisational feeling, she massaged the thick liquid she bled for her love.
Casting her head back, her now scruffy locks flailed away from and into her eyes, salivated hard into her mouth, sweated on and dried to her tears.
She sighed a sort of pleasured, victorious groan at manipulating the liquid she felt she had encouraged from the stone. She went faint, gazing long in swirling, rocking passes at the reclusive roof, massaging her slain adversary's still warm corpse, running her fingers through the deep, warm spoils.
She gawked, wide eyed as her hallucination grew, handfulls of the thick clay coursing through her fingers, clenched and sprayed up her forearms in the act.
She felt another surge coming on, grabbing and ripping, gazing long, but dizzily into the inextinguishable supply of her black horror quarry; tearing handfuls and scooping and emancipating, digging into the very beating heart of the church, but never ploughing in, only over, its ever bleeding arterial wound covering her in impossible quantities.
It grew in a sudden.
She roared in an emotional blend.
Drowned in the very potion of her passion - her black, gleaming prize all over her, literally!
Ann threw her sharpened, predatory claws into the air with a force of vigour so great she lifted herself sheer unto her feet and, tensing spike-pit claws, threw them down, exploding in a ball of black, alien tendrils.
"Eddie is dead, BUT WE LIVE!" A blood-curdling mixture of moisture and emotion, of feral and female - her voice shook the stained-glass personification for the pious!
Giving a passion in the form of her voice, she ripped her alien costume asunder with the effort, jaws of such predatory portrayal casting an offensive organ out into the oppressive world.
"We are the match of all this world can do!" Stroking her long, black-clad arms in a sensitive, sensual rubber hide "We have vigour and power beyond the means of mortal man, just look!"
She gazed at the ground where her battle had been waged and the day won; her territory to control, she expulsed a force of her symbiotic other so violent it wrought the stone pebble from pebble, an explosion of dust all that remained as she threw her arms back out wide, lifting and slamming the very ruined altar through the flying buttresses so worshipful to the meek and she (in another life.)
A scream of glee and roar of passion combined in her voice, she easing at last, with her final victory won.
Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, finding voice in her new costume as it spoke sweet nothings into her willing ear.
"Beautiful, elegant, delicious, passionate, ferocious, calculating, destined..." She listened to this whispered prayer and beheld in true, collective peace now, her new body for all it's unprecedented glory and escalated the game.
"We are not of this world, a few tenses and scrunches of our body and..." Her legs, all the way up and a little bit further, her figure picked "hourglass" from the option screen and her every curve and finely measured inch burgeoned to impossible extremes.
She didn't care, she was beyond rules and regulations now, her will was her way and she decided it needed projection in the most grotesque and carnal fashion!
So physical and flesh-bound, her supercilious gait and provocative meeting of grotesque horror (with the promise of hazard) and libidinousness (with the promise of procreation (lodged through your face,)) Ann gleamed.
She gleamed her whole body over, "A glorification of all once ejected from this place, a temple to iniquity and a pedestal upon which to hang your liquidated, juddering cadavers!" The suit whispered in worship of her, it teased and played with her senses, it fondled her ego with all the purpose of a lifecoach and awaited orders.
"Besotted? I'm not surprised, I rescued you, gave you life where I lost the one most precious to me - do you think you can compensate for the love of my life?" Ann questioned this wonderful power she had been given.
"You want that hole in your life filled?" The sound of a creaking door at the back of the church.
"I do!" The sound of footprints and then stunned silence.
"You want purpose? Revenge? In a word: life?" The symbiote lilted in a whispered, seductive fashion, exciting an invisible Clitoris deep within its folds.
"Nothing more!" Voices grew from the back of the hall, bums - gangsters, obviously this was one of their cesspits.
"Then I can help you fill it, if I can only suggest a filling?" In beneath her costume, she felt a sensation coming on akin to the promise of a sexual plateau.
"Please do..." She knew what was coming, sensing the approaching group of young males behind her; Her jaws released and her tongue licked out into the air, taut and slithering inexplicably and erect, reminiscent of something else she felt deeper down.
"You like Foie gras?" She gasped in bated consideration, so stationary she seemed statue-like to her encroaching prey.
"The liver is the best part?" Ann's eyes, deep beneath her liquid weapon, rolled sinisterly to the side as if to look behind her.
"Who's to say what is not yet known?" The symbiote teased her with anticipation, showing her things she could do with it, the delicate agonies she could impose on her guests, "But we might as well start somewhere?"
"I quite agree!" A drop of A shoulder.