Basque
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]
BDRP Admin. Writer. Villain. Personal Blog.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
I tried running from the memory and the mourning.
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