#rp; Murder Husbands (Waywardfeathered 002)

[poisonwhiskey-archive]

A serial killer au plotted with @waywardfeathered

“Hmm-hmm my girl... Hmhm... bend... Oooh... killing machine. Hmmm everything. Hm... body control ... Everything.... Love her... Need her... Seed her. Yeeeeah she turns me on... Hold tight. I'm a highway star”

He hummed along to the song playing on the radio, occasionally the odd lyric or two escaping. He took a step back, taking in his masterpiece in it’s entirety.  

Oh, it was beautiful. (If he said so himself). 

Now he wasn’t an artist, not even in the loosest of terms, but Dean beamed with pride with what he created. He danced around the room as he added little touches here and there, spinning on his toes, pivoting on his heels. Bobbing his head to the beat of the drums. It was a good time, except...

Except for his screaming. 

“No, no, no”, Dean chided with a lilt in his tone. He grabbed his gun from the bedside table, waving it around casually as he chatted away, as if it wasn’t a loaded, deadly weapon. How annoying, that the guy’s screams could be heard through the duct-tape. Like the constant buzzing of a fly around Dean’s head. “The metal-head scream doesn’t come until later. And besides, it’s more of a ‘yyeeeaaaaahh!’ than ‘aaaahhhhh!’”.

Dean sighed, an insulting smile of pity crossed his face as he crouched in front of the captive. Bound and gagged, and discarded in the corner. “I don’t know why you’re screaming and crying so damn much. It wasn’t like you really loved her. If you did, you wouldn’t have cheated on her with your secretary. I mean... Really? Talk about unoriginal. Although, I can’t really blame you. Hot blond? Forbidden office romance? Hard to resist, buddy, trust me, heh, I get it...”

Just then, the guitar riff kicked in, and Dean spun away from his victim. In favour of briefly playing the air-guitar, using his gun as the neck of the imaginary instrument. “Hmm... What do you think? As pretty as the day you married her, right?”

Dean chuckled as his words made the guy sob even louder. His wife was knelt on the centre of the bed, her head bowed and hands together as if she was praying. Her designer white dress stained a deep red. She wasn’t there by choice, no, she was definitely dead. Ropes stretched across the room, rigged up to keep her lifeless body upright. But the best part, oh, Dean’s pièce de résistance, was her wings. 

The skin on her back was cut in half vertically, and pulled apart to either side by hooks. The flaps of skin held perpetually outwards as two magnificent wings. A little ragged and uneven, it was hard to get a clean cut with all her squirming. But with the ambient room lighting shining behind her, she looked the very picture of divine.