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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Printable Version

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

Basque
[Image: 6ysSHBp.png]


Darkness was his friend.

The light had never shared its kindness in the way darkness had, with a sweeping embrace so rich and full, there was the immediate impression of home. The darkness never questioned who or what may rest beneath the ebony shroud. Whereas the light was a liar, and a coward, hiding it’s face when things were at their worst. The light offered nothing but cruel trickery, and remained firm in presence only when it was best suited to do so. There was no middle ground to be found where the two could meet peacefully. Instead, there remained a rigid line where the light was willing to go, and from there, a creeping beginning to where darkness ruled entirely. Days passing proved this, and existed as justification to the Fae, giving him countless reasons to frown at the thought of one more moment in the light of humanity’s day; Of any day, really.

Basque knew the city was a clogged artery. He knew the world was hardly more than a stretched vein, throbbing with the life of billions upon billions of helpless mortals, but of his kind? Well, he knew they were the virus infecting mortality. Even as the blood welled from gaping wounds, and the body beneath his jerked and squirmed, his tanned figure couldn’t help but admire the handiwork. No, he couldn’t help but admire his designs. This abomination, this sweet girl, with her picket fence smile and gutted eye sockets that stared their empty pleas at his face and chest, barely breathing through all the fluids gargling up her windpipe. Diligent with drill in hand, the looming male remained hunched over her dribbling maw and continued his work, an electric whirr echoing through his dingy warehouse home. By the light of a dim halogen he saw her, and as it swayed ominously above, so too did her broken features seem to distort.

Basque loved the darkness because in moments like these, he need not see his prey. It was preferred he just hear the beat of his victim’s dying heart, as it was enough to send him into a fit. The air thick with her stench, her filth - and his arousal. A spray of pheromones and a rush of endorphins. She would love him even if it killed her. He would love her and it killed her. The two danced this dance until there was nothing left but congealed pulp and a bent drill bit. Such was another quiet day in the shop, with Basque soaked in a maroon basting while his hand jerked roughly around the length of his cock. He dedicated this load in particular to whoever the nameless mess was before him, and finished after a few moments with an unceremonious grunt. He licked his fingers when he was done.

Basque wanted to taste this victory.[/sub]
-----
[b]




She said shut up and fuck off. His filet knife had retorted that she talked too much. The knife had the last say on things, as usual, and it aided to cut out that pretty windpipe like it was a slice of cobbler.

Back in the garage, Basque had a growing collection because he thought vocal cords were something of a novelty. Some were in better condition than others, but this one he had been careful with. This one he felt attached to. Wrapped in medical gauze, with the blood seeping through the already stained face, it vaguely resembled panties of a newly deflowered girl. A fully bloomed woman. Parsimonious on occasion, he recycled what he could, bandages included. His peculiar obsessions weren't cheap. They didn't pay the bills, either. Not only did Basque spend most of his life scrounging for loose change; he also carved up pretty girls.

His doe eyes belied his personal history. There was charm in his pores, and when he sweat, it filled the room with a cinnamon aroma. Shoving his cock inside holes he made in their skin was the only way he knew how to please himself. Pushing away the knotty, stringy insides to coat him in their life essence. Thinking about it was a mistake. Thinking about it was tenting his slacks, and he quickly re-positioned his member to tuck the head in the waistband of his boxer briefs. His bundled prize was pocketed, and forgotten while his steps lead through the back lot of the Valley Oak mall.

He didn't get home until late. No one greeted him. He didn't have a pet or any inkling to get one, and his luck with women was rough. Something about the way he talked seemed to make them angry.

It always started with a condescending bout of snark. In order afterwards: A pompous, arrogant chuckle. A loud, booming bark. A violent, threatening whisper.

His last girlfriend, Sara, had made him promise he would never do her any harm. He even made a contract with her. When she did die, at no fault to Basque, he went through the stages of mourning. Her funeral had been hard on everyone, but especially hard on him because he had just seen her alive and breathing. Laughing even, playing her guitar with her morning coffee nearby. The apartment had always smelled like pressed espresso and pine, nutty and wooden and lived in.

Their sex had been an adventure for Basque because he never once tried to slip his fingers under her eyelids and pluck out the balls of her eyes. He never sank his teeth into her flesh just to rend it from the attached ligaments. He never once imagined her dead, dying, decayed, or entirely skeletal.

So at the funeral, when he was hovering over her casket with a glassy gaze, everyone avoided being too close. There was an edge to his stride when he left the funeral parlor, and for several days, he was a ghost. No one heard hide or hair of the doe eyed man. At least not until he was ready to be seen again.

Sara's corpse had already been buried by the time he fucked it. Fucked her. He slid his twitching member in her mouth after the stitches had been popped open. Her tongue was dry as sandpaper. Basque, with some effort, flipped the body over and sank his length in her ass with the full force of his hips and a half bottle of hand sanitizer, but was met with less resistance than he expected. They mentioned the smell of the chemicals made the experience all the more exciting, but there was too much time between her embalming and his violation. All he could smell was a pine box and the washed dress they had put her in. Maybe the lingering obstruction of heavily caked on make up, but he tried to block the rest out. None of it mattered.

When he crawled out of the grave, he didn't feel any less inclined to kill. He missed Sara but he wouldn't stop for her. He still liked to kill pretty girls, but his attention shifted to those who reminded him of her. The ones with Tiffany bracelets and scars on their elbows. The ones who popped their gum loudly. The ones who didn't mind being mean to their server at a restaurant. The ones who smoked after sex, and at the bar, but never in the house.

Everywhere he went, Basque made sure to carry his knife, as well as something to collect souvenirs in. Sometimes the thrill wasn't in following them. Sometimes it came from when their eyes widened as their minds worked to understand details he never bothered to share. His pretty girls died confused, and on occasion, alone. He couldn't always sit around while they gurgled out their last croaks for air. It was a pastime initially, but since Sara died, Basque didn't find himself interested in other hobbies.

Even his sex drive suffered.

This obsession of his was a labor of love. In some ways it was all for Sara, who was now an Angel with the lord. She could look down and see his deeds and know his commitment. All those pretty girls with dark curls and tight cunts. Ribbons and braids and necklaces with crosses. Love handles and cutter scars. Little peg teeth with a few that snagged on their lips when they spoke.

Basque didn't pause long in his doorway to peer around the darkness. He just unbuckled his pants and pulled out his cock, his squared fingers rough and knowing as they gripped near the head to pull back his foreskin. Sara had liked the hood of flesh, going so far as to slurp at it when she sucked him off. No matter how kinky his girlfriend had been, he didn't think of her in that way when he wanted to come. Instead he thought about the sounds of bones cracking, and the mechanized whirring of a drill bit being forced through an eye socket.

He climaxed at the panic in her eyes when he told Sara about his collection.
[/sub]


Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

Kismet
[Image: 0sE5vbt.png]


"GET OUT OF MY CAR!"

He was yelling, and she, well... She didn't care. Kismet Vereaux was always hearing some sort of complaint when it came to just what she was doing, and with a cigarette being held loosely between her thumb and pointer finger, the bitching could continue without so much as a quip of response from the blond. This man, whatever his name was, wanted more than he could ever hope to bargain for, and the female didn't really know how to let him down; so she had been honest. 'You're an idiot' explained the girl, her pouting lips parted only to expose an amused grin, 'And you don't really have anything I want.' Well, it hadn't gone over well, and the female soon found herself in the vehicle with a raging driver, his anger bubbling across the spread of seat to where she absently gave her smoldering carcinogen a flick. Maybe Kismet didn't have the heart to lash out, or maybe she was as bored as was assumed, but the rise she had managed to get from the stranger was surly entertaining.

"Just get the fuck out and walk, you stupid bitch!" Hands moved to grapple the passenger, and the male was avidly trying to push her from the car at this moment, only she didn't give him that satisfaction. Instead her free hand breezed to the handle and with a sharp pop, it opened to the cool night air. Exiting the liquor coated interior of the Subaru, her body shifted to catch his reaction while her mouth was continuing to expose those pearly white incisors - a mocking sort of smile, if it could be considered a smile at all. Silent as usual, she slammed the door shut behind her and started her trek while the stranger pulled away from the side of the road he had left her, and went about his merry way into the night. Strange Kismet wasn't concerned by being stranded on the side of the road, but she generally took this sort of thing in stride, knowing she'd find what she was looking for in time.

The night was upon the rural stretch of highway, but that shouldn't have been enough reason for the lacking company the blond noted; no cars and no city lights this deep in the wilderness. All she could hear was the sharp cries of night creatures and the general buzz of something else - something insect in nature, or so she assumed. Kismet brought up a hand to brush away golden locks from her pristine features, her tribal face paint already smeared in a fashion best suited for the whore she was. She had been at a party most of the evening but had decided to ditch in favor of more lucrative affairs, though they had proven stale and she was bored. Instead of being spooked, she retained that quiet arrogance that seemed a natural flaw of a woman with her appearance. Still, there wasn't any reason for her to keep such a smug expression now, because the truth of the matter was she was in deep shit.

"Who dumps a girl in the middle of nowhere?" Kismet murmured after about an hour or so of stumbling steps, because by this time, she had given herself the time to mull over the consequences of her actions. Still, the girl couldn't have helped it and being stranded at whatever shitty apartment the male lived in wouldn't have been any better for her in the long run. At least now she had the opportunity to see the sights, and take in the quiet whispers of the evening fog. Actually, why was there so much fog surrounding this secluded pass? Far be it from here to know geography at any great extent, but were the mountains always so densely covered in the blinding mist? Every step brought her closer to whatever this distant looming shape was, and every moment reminded the woman of just how stupid this who evening out had become. Nothing could really lessen the extreme distaste she felt towards her surroundings, save the idea that eventually, she'd come to a stop.

The fog dissipated at some point, at least enough for Kismet to see her surroundings, and in this, there was a small victory. Green hues narrowed a bit, making out what looked to be a massive sign to the side of the road, and she caught the words that peeled and cracked against the face of the directional marker. SILENT HILL - NEXT EXIT. A laugh broke from her throat, something pleasant to break the silence, and she pumped her fist playfully. "Fucking finally!" All this mindless walking had finally led her to a town, and there was nothing more fulfilling than knowing the blind journey was finally coming to a close. Donned in her halter top dress and edgy heels, she probably didn't fit into the setting of the hick town, and whatever inhabitants would probably see her as expensive trash, but all she needed was a phone and whatever thoughts came to mind when they met Kismet were pointless. No need to share, and she wasn't about to dwell on the opinions of others.

Let's face it, Kismet was a slut anyway.

So, soon the town took shape on the horizon, images appearing to be buildings and storefronts popping into view under the veil of darkness and mist; which honestly gave her the creeps - but there was light in the distance, and that was enough to assure her there were people here in this small blip on the map. At the edge of town, she came to a quick stop and searched her tight knit dress for the pack of cigarettes she had hidden, which she recovered quickly enough with skilled hands across her evident curves. Opening the pack to produce the tucked away lighter, she lit one of the smokes and took a deep drag, letting the vapor drag out after it had done its part to calm her nerves. "Silent Hill... What a strange little place." But it didn't seem quaint and it surely wasn't hospitable by the look of it; more like some large truck stop, by first appearances. "I gotta get out of here."


Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-11-2014




Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-13-2014

Loe
[Image: LWk4AH5.png]

I am the alpha and the omega.

Where the world they knew collided with the ones they didn’t, that was where darkness fed into existence. The spectrum of good and evil intact because the most heinous beings never stopped to wonder where they fell on it. Did every good deed really earn a punishment? Was there reward to hard work? No strange spectral wraith or haunting wailer would argue one way or the other, just as the sweeping embrace of oblivion didn’t mind where on the chart you happened to align yourself. The all-encompassing dimension of the void had no objections to making deals with saints, as they were no longer saints by the time this option would seem viable. The truth of the matter was always evident by the fear someone felt the first time the abyss made contact: There would be no redemption for them.

Philiedus Loe existed, and in such, it corrupted. It had shared in the madness of the abyss, having felt every slithering tendril and corrupting force shift and writhe over it’s being since the moment of conception; it was a part of the great machine of madness by birth and right. The ravaged minds and bodies of countless victims all made for study, for there was a great much to learn from the lesser beings of the universe and Loe had been there for much of it. The question wasn’t whether Loe enjoyed the existence it shared in, but rather it was capable of understanding the impact it left. Was it selflessness or selfishness that drove Loe to seek the children of the elder races as worthy vessels? A dark path could be the way home for some, but the lonely end for others – so who was there fit to decide the truth?

Many would resist Loe. Few would manage to fend the being off with willpower alone, but those who accepted the gift received exactly what they asked for. The abyss had no need for gimmicks or lies. It only needed vessels and from those, it would earn a place in the galaxies of present. Every long dead star had been home to planets the void had visited, with each of those hosting countless carriers of the foreign malignance. Each had purpose, serving as the eyes, ears and hands of the Great Old Ones. Loe was a hand and his vessels were fingers, from which history would be made. Wars declared and ended, miracles offered and hope stolen; the outcome all based on the will of the ancient ones. Loe did not question this because Loe was unable to do so.

Loe did have feelings though. Crude, rudimentary things that acted more like numbed appendages than anything else. Love, hate, jealousy, fear. Loe would tell you whom it’s favorite vessel had been, but not why they were special in comparison to the others. It could tell you why it chose it’s victims when it fed, but the reasons would seem strange. It was known to be a jealous being, but only when truly threatened by the existence of another, and it feared the ancients. It had seen the birth of this universe after the destruction of the last. There was good reason to fear them, but also to be in awe. Maybe that was the most impressive part of the being Loe – it was capable of true admiration for those it deemed worthy. In the past, the vessels had varied from barely sentient amoebas to wandering behemoths the size of small moons. Male, female, other... A sea of different souls that had all been rightly chosen, despite what or who they may have been in that life.

Humanity came in time. Springing up like a fungus on the surface of a planet no one had bothered to acknowledge, they seemed to rise to power at a speed unknown to much of the multiverse. The Abyss watched, curious, because there had been no such race in their time observing who rose to power so quickly. They had no natural predators, yet from humanity, predators would mutate. Daemons of a low dimension, Vampires from the dead, and Therians from the very people fearing the wilds. All these things were so perfectly placed, they would thrive and spread just as humanity first had, but with different rules in place. Stronger to some degree, but weak to the most mundane of things. Sunlight and faith in a makeshift God, and even silver. The void would be laughing by the time the newest being would find its way to the world of humans, though this special race would be the one Loe took special interest in.

The Fae were different from the other offshoots of humanity. They never had been human, yet they were made from humanity just as the rest had been. They were the embodiments of dreams, desires, wants and needs. To be Fae was a mix between being the hero of the story and the ultimate villain, with good reason to be both and neither. As a whole, the creatures wanted nothing more than to live in their separate civilization several dimensions away, yet they were cursed with the curiosity of man, and in such made the mistake of mingling with humanity. Loe watched as these hedonistic creatures soaked up the culture and the history of the creators, longing to be part of this short-lived collection of apes, yet were always unable. The Fae lived eons if they were content to remain in Arcadia, yet they seemed to die off like flies while they were on earth. Loe longed for them, for their plight, because they seemed to deserve better than a filthy mortal death. They were beautiful to Loe, as humans found butterflies beautiful, and the being resented every other being off the abyss that was able to have one as their vessel.

But in time, Loe would be given what it wanted. A vessel fit for Loe was one by the name of Chance Rilo Vereaux, and the being instantly felt connected to the frail fae. Chance was young then, barely more than a fledgling and Loe had to take her while she cried in the throes of endless pain brought by her first evolution. How delicate Loe had been, words so sweet and promising that no one could ever deny him; this would be the one the being was given and there would be no opportunity for failure to arise. To Chance, Loe was the savior willing to bear her burdens and slay the dragons for her – but to Loe, Chance was the experience of a lifetime. How the being loved her then as she bled on the dirty, cracked cement of that Tokyo Park. Graffiti lining the walls of the tunnel they were in, her body splintered and filthy with changing limbs and regenerating tissue trying to keep up, half scabbed over her pulsing carcass. She had asked if it would hurt, but Loe laughed, thinking how he could have said yes and she still would have succumbed. It didn’t though.

Loe would never hurt Chance.


Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-14-2014

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Kat's Blurbs [Read only] - Kat - 11-14-2014

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