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deafsignifcantother · 1 month

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my husband and I

♥ summary: alastor is an amazing husband, but the tone in the house starts to shift when you learn that he is the serial killer you feared. ♥ relationships: human alastor x deaf gender neutral reader ♥ word count: 1.6k ♥ warnings: big power dynamic issue, reactive abuse, murder, visualization of deafness and dependency, but they still have cute moments bc they're married and love each other ♥ a/n: A VERY SHAMELESS REPOST OF A YEARS OLD FIC THAT'S NOWHERE NEAR HAZBIN RELATED LMFAO

There are so many things running through your mind. You think about the smiles and how they always appear like a cocky smirk. Then, there's the way he laughs, even if it's a short chuckle, he bares his teeth. So many things could have alerted you to his danger. Are you stupid for not detecting it before?

When you think back, you are sure he had tried confessing his hobby (hobby, what a simplistic way to describe it) to you. He had made past comments about how he'd kill people, but you thought it was dramatics, and you had brushed it off.

He knows that you know now. The energy in the house had shifted—from both parties—and became hostile. The hospitality within your home had dissipated alongside the innocent eyes he would give you in the morning.

That night, before he undresses himself to slip into bed, he holds a threatening hand to your neck. He doesn't grab it or tighten his grip, but the implication is there. He signs with one hand,

"Without me, you have nothing, so don't you ever forget that, darling."

It's true. Your job, friends, the chance of a future being single, the idea of making money without him—it's all gone. It has been for a while. Your time in the house is all day, every day, and even if you wanted to leave, you had no car to drive. He keeps you here. It has kept you sane and safe up until now.

"I won't tell anyone." You sign with an empty facial expression. It feels pointless. With him, you feel like a walking corpse, somebody who is already dead.

His hand moves up to your cheek, where he pats you, tilting his head with a smile. "I know."

And after that, he stopped treating you differently. He returned to kissing your face every morning, leaving the house after cooking you breakfast, and doing all the husband-y things he was doing before. The days went on and on, and you were beginning to get used to the dial-back.

But you jump whenever he walks up behind you and places his hands on your hips. He has gotten quieter, sneakier. Is he planning something?

When you're alone in the house, you eye the phone, wondering if, in another life, you could pick it up, call someone, and leave the house without having to worry about what would happen. In a perfect reality, you could talk to the police about everything.

You can't even imagine Alastor in jail.

It would be your fault if anything happened to him. Would you be able to deal with that?

How could he even hurt someone? You try to imagine yourself doing it, standing in the forest and torturing someone.

It has been you and him for the last couple of years. He was all you needed and all you cared for. You didn't notice that he was stripping you of all your relations, your friends and family, stripping you of your independence and the things that made you human. He gave you enough in return. Your social life is spent with his coworkers while he interprets for you. You go to dinners, ones that his job hosted. You are always flashed as if you are a prized possession.

Maybe that's all you are.

You read his facial expressions even closer now. The furrow of his brow or the dropping of his eyelids always makes your whole body tighten. What will he do if he's mad at you? Will he hurt you?

You try to search in your memory: has he hurt you before? No, you realize. He hasn't. A sadistic twitch in his eye only appears in your romantic life. His hands have a consistent way of touching your body as if he is examining it.

You think about these things while you do the housework, while waiting for him to come home from work. Throughout everything: the fear, the sorrow, the guilt, you continue sticking by him. What else is there to do?

When he comes home from work, he puts his jacket around the shoulders of a chair, stepping close to you. You can feel his body—his warmth and his touch. He rolls up his sleeves and helps you with dinner without saying a thing. When you look up to him, he doesn't allow his eyes to look at you. A part of that makes your cheeks warm.

That night, he signs, "It's your turn."

You are too busy gazing into his eyes to realize he has taken his turn.

It was when you first moved in with him that you brought, in boxes, your board games. Whenever Alastor would bring company, he would force you to bring them out and be friendly as he played with them. Now, alone with you, he is being competitive. It's cute. And it's the Alastor you have known.

When you move your piece, he eyes it, tilting his head. Your breath stops. There it is again: he's examining you.

"What's work like?" You ask.

"Same as it has been."

You nod your head, glancing at his hands, trying to think of how many lives they must have taken. Does he shoot people? You can imagine that. The thought of him using his bare hands is beyond you; you've never seen him be violent like that. What about knives? His cooking - skilled, far off from clumsy… he may use knives.

He lifts his chin. His eyes ask the question: what are you thinking about?

There's a vacant space and a lack of words between you. You are chewing the inside of your mouth, grinding your teeth before you raise your hands.

"Do you use knives?"

He straightens his shoulders.

"When?"

"In the forest."

He smiles. The one that looks like a smirk.

"Yes."

You just nod, your cheeks warming. He's a killer. It's true; he admits it and doesn't shy away from the fact. But still, in your head, you can't seem to force yourself to be too worried about it. He hasn't hurt you, not unconsentually, and this thought taunts you like a loaded gun.

What do you have to be scared of?

A lot, you remind yourself. He's the danger: the stranger in your house that you need to be cautious of. Yet, ever since he had been revealed to you, he has done little to further the narrative of psycho-serial danger. He's still your husband. He's still the one you belong to.

That's why, when he comes home bloody, you shower with him before helping him bandage himself. You're the one who ruffles the towel through his hair and against his shoulders, catching the spare droplets. The two of you hardly even talk to each other as you press bandaids against his skin. You kiss each one.

Your lips touch the skin of his bicep, and then you peck upward, continuing to his neck, where you linger in the space between his cheek and his ear. His hand falls to your thigh, cupping the side of it, and he rubs the skin up and down. He doesn't move it from there, doing nothing salacious, not without your direct intention stated to him. It makes your heart race. At that moment, you forget about everything violent about him. But with those kisses, with the way his lips suck on your skin, you wonder if it is contagious. The violence, the wrath, and the war seeped into your skin like poison. You felt it corrupting you: the innocent front you had began to melt away, and suddenly, you were exposed.

Because when one of his victims enters through the backdoor: your home, your safety net, you do what you know Alastor would do if he made it in time. You grab a knife, hiding behind a wall, feeling their footsteps as they step closer. And when they round the corner, you strike them in the face with the back, knocking them down before holding the blade above your head.

You get a good look at their weak body, imagining your kitchen tiles as dirt, a leaf-covered ground, and the walls around you as arrays of trees.

You think about the times Alastor had held you behind him when people tried to talk to you. You think about the times he would protect you from the outside world, the ways he would drive himself insane to make sure you were safe.

He did so much for you, and what have you given him in return? A home filled with paranoia and unnecessary caution? It is unfair to him. You have been lashing out for nothing. So, you decide to gift him this: a new sense of ego—a pride that cannot be hidden, developed from a realization.

In this lifetime, you have one beam of hope: him. With those vows, you both swore to stick together. Through sickness and health, through life and death.

He is your husband; this is the house where you will spend the rest of your life.

When Alastor stands in front of the dead body, he places both hands on his hips, tapping his fingers before signing.

"Is the mess for me?"

You are still breathing heavily. He can see it in your eyes, the way they are wide and craved, the way the person's blood still stained your hair and the skin of your cheek. Your serenity is in the dark gloom yonder.

But you argue against him and his assumptions. When he asks if you are okay, you just smile and nod. "It feels good."

#hazbin hotel #x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #x deaf reader

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dyingswanpavlova · 1 month

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Poison || 》 Coriolanus Snow x Reader 《 OneShot

pairing: president!Coriolanus x wife!reader

warnings: mentions of violence, murder

summary: Coriolanus has his ways of making his wife's life miserable, so it's time she finally retaliates.

"You may have heard of it."

I suppressed the urge to slap the living hell out of him.

"It happened a few days ago."

I clenched my jaw. That was the only reaction I allowed myself to have. I gripped my cup so tightly that my knuckles turned white and the heat of the tea burned my fingertips. But I did not care. The only thing I cared about was dead and here he was, mocking me.

"It was very tragic." He said calmly and with not a hint of sincerity. I closed my eyes for a brief moment. There was a lump in my throat and I knew, if I opened my mouth now, I would cry.

But no.

Not infront of him. I'd rather die than cry infront of him.

The bane of my existence, the nightmare that grew blonde curls and turned human.

"You were in love, were you not? Back when you were younger. While you were still in the Academy." His voice was nonchalant, but his eyes betrayed his smugness.

I felt myself nodding.

"Too bad. He was so young, after all. Such wasted potential." He sighed dramatically ans set his newspaper aside. Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. I wanted to shudder in disgust. But instead I forced a smile.

"What a lucky fate that you married me instead, otherwise you would be a widow now, darling." He said sweetly.

Your day may come, I thought to myself.

"I don't think that's how fate works, Coriolanus." I said quietly.

He tilted his head to the side and smiled. Then he reached out and trailed his fingertips down my cheek. From a stranger's point of view it might have almost looked loving.

Almost.

He leaned so close that his breath tickled my earlobe.

"You're right, princess. That's not fate. That's destiny."

I tensed painfully. Did he mean...

No. That was ridiculous. He was indeed a horrible person who had forced and tricked me into this hell of a marriage. But murder?

Or, well...

More murder?

No. That was impossible. He was the president now. He would not risk his position, his everything, out of some jealous stupor, simply to-

I froze. It was not out of jealousy.

It was his way to punish me. To control me.

I slowly looked up and met his gaze. Back in the day when I was naive and clueless enough to fall in love with him, I had thought that his blue eyes were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Now they haunted me in my nightmares.

"You'll be late for work." I whispered hoarsely.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression nonchalant but his eyes - his eyes were intense, menacing, calculating. Terrifying.

After a moment, he nodded. His usual smirk returned and he leaned in to kiss my cheek.

"I will be home for dinner, my love." He whispered in my ear, before he got up, gathered his things and left. I was still in the same position. I did not cry. I did not scream and I did not curse him.

A person could only ever cry as much, I thought.

Instead I got up, straightened my clothes and did my daily, wifely duties.

Since Coriolanus had declared that I needed neither to work nor finish my studies - What would that look like? You're my wife. You're to stay home and bear me an heir. - my duties were mostly housework, cleaning, cooking...

I finished everything perfectly, just the way he expected me to. I dressed up nicely, a pretty dress, just like he liked. The house was ready and so was dinner. Everything was simply perfect.

But my hands were shaking when I reached for the last, the most important ingredient.

I carefully opened the small lid as I applied the see-through fluid.

And my thoughts were loud and clear as I greeted my husband with a smile.

Too bad. He is so young, after all. Such wasted potential.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus snow x reader #tbosas #tbosas fanfiction #coriolanus snow fanfiction

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calmcoldevening · 8 months

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• Thomas hewitt (dating)- So Reader knows Thomas like we were born in the same town or were neighbors something of the sorts. And we hear rumors about how the Hewitt family are murders,/cannibals. But we remind our business cause we're like, nah cause they didn't hurt me or I haven't seen anything, They're just a little quirky, We defend their family. But for some reason Luda tells us not to go in the basement, We're like okay, whatever it's not my business. Reader is like a, 'idc not my business type.' Until one day reader hears noises or something, so we get curiousand go down there. But this is where we enter the angst, Cause Thomas or someone hears movement in the basement and thinks a victim is trying to escape. So they do something to us which makes us scared of them (torture or something) and it can end with like fluff or something, Because im pretty sure reader would forgive them.

Thomas Hewitt x reader, who knew out he's a cannibal and murderer

Tw: cannibalism, murdering, blood, violence (well, it's the TCM)

Texas was your home, you loved everything about it, from the picturesque meadows filled with yellow buttercups to the dusty city road. These beautiful orange and scarlet sunsets and golden sunrises reflected in a small lake fifteen minutes walk from your house looked like the most real picturesque paintings. It was hot and humid during the day, and cool enough at night. The air was filled with dust and dry grass. Birds were rustling in the distance.

You liked everything here, because you grew up in this place. Your parents moved to Texas before you were born, so this was the only place you'd ever seen in your life. But it was heaven for you. The city you lived in was relatively small, so everyone knew each other.

You've always been sweet and kind, perhaps even a naive child with a soul too pure for this world. Maybe that's why all the neighbors in the neighborhood loved you. The children played with you, and the kind grandmothers often treated you to sweets or pies. Your face has always been decorated with a satisfied smile and cookie crumbs.

Everyone was surprised when they found out about your friendship with the "strange boy". His name was Thomas, he was one of your neighbors down the road. You called him Tommy. His face was covered with a decent layer of bandages, which he kept awkwardly adjusting with his small hands. You always giggled with that cute gesture, but not out of malice, but in a kind way. After that, you went up to him and gently helped him cope with his little problem. You combed his hair and put his hands in order. The boy always had short-cropped nails with dirt under them and dry palms, probably from housework. But apart from his oddities and inability to talk, and he was quite an ordinary child.

Almost.

Sometimes you'd find him somewhere in the backyard or in the field. He stood there, deep in thought. Next to him, you noticed a small fluffy body and a crimson puddle. Sometimes you were scared of his violence against animals, but Thomas was always in a hurry to calm you down. He caressed your cheek and explained with gestures that he had only found the animal just like that. And you always believed him out of your stupid childish naivety. Time passed, and you got closer. The Hewitt family has always been kind to you. Sometimes, they were even more attentive and caring towards you than your own parents. Even grumpy Charlie. Sometimes a man intervened in disputes if you were molested by local hooligans. He could even punch them in their pretty faces, as long as they didn't touch you, the little girl of this family. Luda has always wanted a daughter, and now you have appeared. The woman was more than happy when she found out how close you are with her son. That's why it was no secret that you and Tommy were dating. On the contrary, Luda helped Thomas in every possible way to impress you, she helped him make gifts for you and told him how to take care of the girls. Charlie just turned on his adult film cassettes, that's all his support.

You really loved each other. You were the only one who really understood and cared about Tommy, despite his appearance. You loved his long dark hair, which you often so gently washed and combed. You loved those frosty blue eyes, like two big deep lakes full of love for you. You loved his masks, and tenderly kissed every scar on Thomas's face and hands. You were perfect. Tommy's heart belonged entirely to you.

And now you're 24. Thomas was a little older, but it was never a problem. The man was still very attentive and caring.

But gradually the city emptied with the closure of the slaughterhouse. It was a big blow for most of the residents of the city, because there were no other ways to earn money here. You turned out to be one of the few who stayed. Maybe you just didn't want to leave your home. Or maybe you didn't want to leave Thomas and his family. Anyway, it wasn't easy for all of you, at least because basically there wasn't a lot of food and all that.

But after a while, surprisingly, everything got better. Not really, of course, but old Charlie started getting meat from somewhere. It wasn't as tender as some beef used to be, but it's better than nothing. Although you weren't a big fan of meat before, so you almost didn't care about it. You helped Luda in her shop at the gas station, and at home in your free time you even grew some vegetables, which also helped the Hewitt family a lot. In general, everything was more than good, and yet, the atmosphere in the house was different now.

There have always been some strange rumors around the Hewitt family, sometimes even terrible ones. And yet, you loved Tommy no matter what. The whole family was kind to you, so you had no reason to doubt them, right? Thomas has always been nice to you. You often walked on cool evenings, just holding hands. You were talking about your day, and he just listened with a smile on his lips. You were the only person he trusted and loved. The guy liked your voice, your way of talking and your laugh. Undoubtedly, in his eyes you were damn beautiful, but it seemed that he was forever looking through your appearance, into your very soul. It was so sweet. You couldn't help but fall in love with him even more.

You were in the kitchen at the Hewitt house making a pumpkin pie. Luda has always been surprised by your wonderful cooking skills, so she wasn't afraid to leave you alone. He needed to go back to the store for a while, where Hoyt had taken her. So you're left alone. Humming to yourself, you swayed your hips to the beat of your made-up song. It's good that no one was watching you now and you could do anything. Finally, you put the pie in the oven and wiped your hands on the fabric of your apron with a victorious smile. After removing all the ingredients and washing the dishes, you sat down on a chair and just began to wait. Hundreds of different thoughts flashed through your head, from this very pie to the little ring you noticed in Tommy's room. You were filled with excitement, which made you happily bite your lip. Could it be...?

Your thoughts were interrupted by some kind of thud from somewhere below. Your body instantly tensed up. It was scary to hear something like that when you were alone at home.

You slowly got up from your chair. The sound seemed to come from the basement. But you clearly remembered that Luda, and the rest of the Hewitt family, told you not to go into the basement under any circumstances. It's strange, isn't it? Of course, you always followed this strange rule, but now that you were alone at home, you were scared of what might be there. You didn't find any better options than just going down to the basement and taking a peek. You're fast, no one will notice. What can happen?

The floorboards creaked unpleasantly under your careful steps. The unpleasantly cold water has touched your ankles.

Your eyes widened in horror, and you covered your mouth in fear. There was a man sitting at the other end of the basement, although he could hardly be called such anymore. His face was disfigured, and his arm and part of his leg were missing. His whole body was covered in scarlet blood. The victim's mouth was gagged and his eyes were painfully closed. There was an old bucket lying nearby. So that's what it was... The man was chained to the wall, and there was a massive hole from a meat hook on his shoulder.

"God.." the only thing that came out of your mouth was when you slowly backed away. My mouth was dry, and an unpleasant feeling of nausea was slowly rising in my stomach. Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes.

You took one hesitant step, then another. Finally, your back hit something massive. In the blink of an eye, a huge hand was placed on your mouth, and then darkness.

Thomas's mind was racing. You've seen their secret. Are you afraid now? Of course you're afraid. The moment he found you in the basement, your body was shaking in fear and your eyes were full of horror. But it's all for the family, you have to understand. Sure, Hoyt said to kill anyone who found out about their family secret, but Thomas couldn't kill you. You were his happiness, his light in life, his beloved. Therefore, he gently picked up your unconscious body in his arms, protectively hugging it to himself. It's just a misunderstanding, isn't it? Thomas left the basement, closing the metal door behind him, and headed for his bedroom. He put you on the bed, trying to make sure that you would be comfortable. You should get some sleep, then you can understand him. It's all for the family, for you. He wanted so much to see you as his little wife, to protect you and your possible children, he wanted it so much. But now his dreams were more fragile than ever.

You woke up in a dark room. It must have been Tommy's bedroom, judging by the big bed. You slowly sat up in bed, feeling a dull ache in your head. After a couple of moments, these horrible images of a corpse in the basement popped up in your head. You instantly wanted to empty your stomach. You put your hand over your mouth, feeling hot tears on your cheeks. Your head was throbbing painfully, and nothing came out of your chest except a long-drawn-out cheekbone. You slid down the bed to the floor, pressing your back against the wall in the corner of the room. Your body was shaking in terror, and your mind was full of vile, terrifying thoughts. I wanted to scream, but it felt like your tongue had been ripped out. You covered your head with your hands, tucking your knees in. You need to get out of here, run. Away from this house, away from this city, away from these people.

Your mental reverie was interrupted by the sudden creak of the door. The dark room was slightly illuminated by warm light from the corridor, the doorway was soon blocked by a tall bulky figure. You instinctively cringed, afraid of the consequences.

Thomas's heart ached as he watched you crawl away from him in fear. As his victims. He carefully closed the door and slowly approached you. You looked like a cornered animal. Thomas didn't like that feeling. He gently grabbed your hand, pulling you onto his lap. You resisted and tried to break free, your mind was racing wildly. But he didn't stop. He took you on his lap, holding you gently against his strong chest. You struggled and cried, afraid that you would be hurt. Thomas felt like his whole world was collapsing seeing you like this. You pounded his chest with your hands, muttering some words, but he wouldn't let go, Thomas just held you closer to him, stroking your back and trying to calm you down. You were afraid of him. It was like that.. wrong.

Finally, you were exhausted, hanging limply in his arms. Your head is on his chest, and only long sobs come out of your mouth. Thomas kisses you briefly on the forehead.

"No harm.." He mutters in a rough voice. He rarely talked, but it seemed like the best option right now, "..love Y/N."

You didn't answer. Your head ached, and your mind was empty, the animal fear in your body gradually subsided, replaced by fatigue. You fell asleep in his arms. Thomas sat there with you all night, afraid that something might happen to you.

In the days that followed, he took care of you and tried in every possible way to show that he would not harm you in any way. He'd rather kill himself if he hurt you. Thomas came into the room and fed you with a spoon. At first you refused and resisted in every possible way, but gradually, because of hunger, you simply did not have the strength left. Thomas brought you something that didn't have meat in it, he knew that meat could upset you. Stewed vegetables, your pumpkin pie, some snacks. Thomas wouldn't let anyone into this room, not even his mom. He had to make sure you were going to be okay. You are his sun, his reason to live.

Over time, it seemed that you had thawed out. It wasn't like you were completely resigned to the fact that the Hewitts were murderers and cannibals. But you realized they wouldn't hurt you, Tommy wouldn't let you. He explained to you that it's for survival. In a way, you realized that this was just the only way out, and yet it was still disgusting and disgusting for you. But Thomas didn't do it because he likes it. He did it for the sake of the family, protected it and fed it. It's necessary.

After a while, you even left the room, although you no longer looked towards the basement. Gradually, everything returned to normal. You even started living at the Hewitt house, Monty made sure to bring all your stuff here. You became the second mistress of Hewitt, Tommy's wife. He finally put the ring on your finger, and you realized all his warm love for you. Luda was glad that her boy had really found his happiness. Now you were sleeping together, giving each other love. You even went down to the basement if Thomas forgot to eat. Ignoring the screams of another victim, you placed the food tray on Thomas's workbench and gently touched his shoulder. The man turned around and wrapped you in a hot kiss. You had a strange feeling when you kissed so strangely to the screams of desperate victims. But it didn't matter. At that moment, it was just you and him, your husband Tommy.

#slashers x reader #thomas hewitt x you #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt #the leatherface #leatherface x you #leatherface x reader

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httpskuzuu · 14 days

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Moral

I'M BACK

Yandere!Chuuya x Reader

English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes

summary: Chuuya is not a good person, and neither are you.

tw: angst¿, mention of murders, toxic relationship, low self-esteem, reader is not the best person

Day 4.

Night began to fall, and you saw yourself reflected in the windows of your favorite convenience store. To say you looked dead would be too kind. Your hair was in disarray, as if you had never combed it before, not to mention your dark circles and vacant eyes. If you were mistaken for a homeless person, you would understand.

This time with Chuuya was…. Well, difficult. Now you feel like a bit of an idiot for letting yourself be fooled, you should have been more careful. You're not oblivious to the bad people in the world, you just didn't think Chuuya would be one of them.

You were dating a mafia executive! And you didn't even know it. You only found out recently, when you saw those blood stains on the shirt you were going to wash. You wished it had all been a misunderstanding, that you were exaggerating and it had all remained an anecdote to laugh about in the future. You wished you hadn't trusted this bastard so much, but now look at you, half a year of your life down the drain. No home, no job, no money.

And you still miss him. God, you feel pathetic. You shouldn't have moved in with him soon after you started your relationship, nor should you have quit your job because he could support you. You try not to be hard on yourself either because, come on, the man “of your dreams” had offered you a life of luxury for literally nothing, you didn't even have to do housework because he was willing to do it so you could live like royalty.

Oh god, how you miss him.

You get out of the store before you get kicked out of there and go back to your friend's house, who you were stealing practically all the money from.

Day 7.

After your long day of looking for a job in all the existing stores, and having no luck in any of them, you arrive at your friend's house to find several policemen at the door. You fear the worst, and it is the worst.

Your friend is dead, or rather murdered. You are told that the scene appears to be the work of the Port Mafia and your blood runs cold.

After half an hour, the police call you because the Armed Detective Agency wants to talk to you, but you're already in a bar, and you don't want to talk to anyone. You hang up directly, even though it could get you in trouble.

Do you feel sad for your friend? Not really. You didn't have much of a relationship, he was a good person who had to get involved in your misfortune. Do you feel guilty? Hell yes, of course.

You know about Chuuya's questionable attitudes, you noticed them from the first moment. You weren't blind. As soon as someone flirted or even hinted a modicum of interest in you with your boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend, you remind yourself) present, you never heard from that person again. You always ignored him, what's more, you were flattered because, if he was that possessive of you, that meant he really loved you, right?

And who else would love you the way you are.

It was a bad idea to leave Chuuya, it was a horrible idea. You should have foreseen this situation, you didn't know specifically that it killed people around you, but that doesn't exclude you from your responsibility. Innocent people died for getting close to you.

If you had talked to Chuuya from the first day you noticed his behavior, maybe things would have been different.

You have another drink to take your mind off that part of you, hidden in the darkest corners of your head, that keeps feeling flattered by him. You'd like to say that thought is small and because of the alcohol, but you'd be lying to yourself.

Chuuya, the man you've loved the most, has killed for you. Sounds like the characteristic that any teenager with hormones going through the roof would wish for when thinking of my ideal boyfriend or girlfriend. Someone who will kill and die for you.

Chuuya would do it, without thinking about it.

No one has loved you like the redhead did. No one has treated you like royalty, nor cared as much about you, nor treated you with as much delicacy and love as he has.

Do you really care about the innocent lives he takes, or are you just faking concern to make yourself feel better?

Day 10.

It's foggy and cold. Perfect weather for the occasion.

You're on your way to Chuuya's house, all dressed in black. You have just left your friend's funeral. You still can't understand why his family invited you.

Your feet are heavy, and you feel that at any moment you will vomit up the nothingness in your stomach. The subject of barely having enough to eat because you spend most of your money at the motel where you are staying is not pleasant. You feel weaker and thinner, you remind yourself to weigh yourself on the scale in the bathroom at Chuuya when you arrive.

You miss the comforts your boyfriend (ex-boyfriend, for now) offered you. You put morals aside, you were never the best person anyway. The people who pointed you out as someone who is selfish and only cares about himself were right, they were so right.

You should have realized your nature earlier, instead of trying to focus on grief and guilt.

Sooner than you thought, you were planted in front of your man's door. You didn't want your hand to shake so much when you ring the doorbell, but it does.

Not even 10 seconds pass before you finally see Chuuya. As perfect as ever, with that captivating gaze that managed to distract you from any subject in just seconds. You regret not dressing up more for him.

He also has slight dark circles under his beautiful eyes. You feel relieved to know that you weren't the only one suffering from the breakup.

“Y/N?! How come you're here, I-” He interrupts himself with his own words, and you can't help but smile at the scene.

His hands want to touch you, to hug you and know that you're real, but he seems to regret it before he even touches you. Oh, if only he knew that you have the same desire to feel his hands again.

Chuuya gives a sigh and nervously averts her gaze, then returns it, her expression more serious and determined.

“Look, I'm really sorry for everything. I should have been honest with you. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and you don't know how much I missed you, and-” You wonder if he's practiced his speech. Before he can continue, you pounce against his body to kiss him with your mouth open.

Chuuya doesn't take long to keep up with you, to trap you in his arms. It's clear to him, he won't let you go again, no matter what he has to do to stop you.

Oh, how you had missed him.

I thought about it ending up in something nsfw, but my asexual ass was afraid of success.

#bsd x reader #bsd x you #yandere bsd #yandere chuuya #chuuya x you #chuuya x reader #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara #yandere bungou stray dogs

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dangermousie · 14 days

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Woo-hoo for a long term married couple with a happening sex life!

Long before we found out the truth, I decided that seeing that he does all the chores (he even hangs her clothes for her!!!) a little murder would have been acceptable. You know why he's a dream man? Not the looks or the trauma or whatever - it's because my dream man is one who does literally all the housework and I have to do none but can come home to a beautifully cleaned and decorated house and wonderfully homecooked meals. If he occasionally hears voices, has a false name and has been accused of murder, well everyone has flaws.

But also, I love how well-written it is, because we are halfway into ep 1 only and we get this seemingly throwaway moment of him putting their daughter to bed:

And even when I first watched this drama in full expectation of him being a killer, I went "but he's gently stroking his sleeping child's hair and there is nobody to see, not even the sleeping kid herself, so this is not for show. He may be a murderer but he cannot be without any kind of feeling."

This kind of constant care can perhaps be faked (since she's awake and noticing and there are also teachers and passerby) but in the privacy of his own home with nobody to see?

(So much of his narrative is very much Pinocchio trying to be a real boy by practicing/acting the way he knows real people act, but he doesn't know he's been a real boy all along.)

PS I didn't catch it back way when but when the reporter off-hand mentions the serial murders case that his father was responsible for, he mentions that the murderer's wife was also found in that hill despite people thinking she ran away before. I didn't notice it back then so I spent the drama wondering where the mom went and assuming the dad killed her but I wasn't sure. Now I am sure and freaking YIKES.

#kdrama #flower of evil #lee jun ki #moon chae won

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chibinightowl · 10 months

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Why does housework always manage to inspire me? I'm exhausted and yet, here I am. Enjoy.

---

Tim wipes his brow, remembering too late he's wearing a bandana to catch the sweat beading on his brow. Grunting, he readjusts it for the umpteenth time.

Beside him, Jason snickers. "You should see the look on your face. If looks could kill..."

"You're lucky I don't have heat vision because you'd be dead again and in a pile of ash even Ra's can't resurrect."

From across the room, Dick's head jerks up. "Tim!" he admonishes. "Come on, it's not that bad."

"Not that bad?" Tim parrots back, ignoring the affronted look on Jason's face. "Not that bad? Dick, we are using an industrial carpet cleaner to clean up cow urine... In. The. Living. Room." He punctuates each word for good measure.

"And the Baby Bat is nowhere to be seen," Jason adds.

"He's got the flu, you can't expect him to help with this," Dick says, ever the peacemaker.

"No, but I sure as hell want to know why Batcow was in the house in the first place," Tim mutters. "If Alfred finds out..."

Dick pales. "I'm sure it was just an accident and the cow wandered in through an open door."

Jason's eyes narrow, catching the ridiculous lie as quickly as Tim does. "Don't tell me you tried to bring the cow into the manor to visit Damian."

It sounds utterly ridiculous but Tim knows Dick. He knows the lengths the man will go to bring a smile to their faces when it's in his power to do so. And this? It's right up his alley.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dick answers breezily. "But what I do know is if you guys help me finish these rugs, I won't tell Bruce or Alfred you're shacking up."

Tim grimaces. It's not often the tables are turned when it comes to blackmail. But what he and Jason have is so new, the last thing either of them want is to tell Bruce. Better he figures it out on his own months or even years from now.

"Pretty sure Alfred already knows," Jason replies, glancing uncertainly at Tim. "He made a few comments the other day at tea."

"Good, bad, or neutral?"

"Neutral to good."

"Great." Tim turns his gaze back on Dick. "Since your threat doesn't have the power of Alfred behind it, you're got fifteen minutes before I walk out of here and leave you on your own."

Jason nods. "I second that, Dickie. You're interrupting date night."

That's a lie but Dick doesn't know that. Still, maybe they can turn it into one after they're done.

"I'll get you a reservation at Francine's if you stay and help me finish," Dick pleads. "Please, guys. Alfred will murder me if he sees the rug."

Tim can get that reservation just as easily, but he makes a show of glancing at Jason to get his thoughts. "Well?"

"I think Dickie is a dead man anyway." Jason gestures to the rug they're been working on for the last 45 minutes. "Only way to salvage this is to cut your losses and get a new one."

Dick groans. "Fine. Where can we buy a new rug at this time of night?"

Jason flashes an arch look at Tim as he smirks. "I know a guy."

#chibinightowl writes #jaytim #tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #I hate cleaning carpets #but it's done and looks good #my sinuses are already thanking me for the effort

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imaginesforallkindoflove · 5 months

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Author's note: I am aware that it is not the stuff I usually post but I like writing fanfic for others as well.

Summary: (Y/N) finds out about their husband’s job. Trigger warning for violence, swearing. It is gender neutral.

It was an accident. A simple, honest, mistake.

They didn’t feel like it was their fault either. The documents were sprawled over the desk, the laptop was opened with so many windows… They felt like they were doing Graves a service by closing the laptop and trying to organize the office. Yes, Phillip had forbidden them to come in that room but (Y/N) tried to make an effort. He always said he was the only one doing all the housework, so their spouse took matters into their own hands, cleaned the whole house, bought groceries to cook an amazing meal from their home country and have a nice evening together with their husband.

You see, (Y/N) and Phillip had been married for a long time now. It was odd, considering that Phillip always wanted a traditional spouse and (Y/N) clearly were not. They worked at their own firm, they owned art galleries and helped museums. They were at the top of the food chain if you could say so, opening art galleries left and right, going on business trips, drinking champagne in Paris at 12 and then going to Japan in the afternoon. They often went on T.V and so on. Phillip disliked the way they lived, telling them it was reckless behaviour and wanting them at home. That point was central in their arguments. But they made it work: (Y/N) considered it was because he was concerned and worried about their safety and the many trips they took, until that fateful evening.

Their eyes wandered on the documents for a quick second, not bothering to read them. But, curiosity killed the cat, as the idiom stated. They wanted to know more about Phillip’s secretive job. He never talked about it while they had all kinds of things to say about their work. They were just curious. Humans were. So, (Y/N) started to browse through the different papers, trying to guess which folder they belonged to. At first, they just read over quickly but some words… Some words didn’t seem right, and they thought to themselves they must be tired, there was no way those were reports about casualties in Las Almas… Like everyone, (Y/N) had heard the fight that happened in that city some months ago. They had been terrified and afraid too, because they had a gallery nearby and some of their employees' families had been killed and murdered. There was a rumor a private american military was behind this but there was no proof.

A sense of dread filled them. With shaking hands, they reached the laptop and started browsing through the files. Why didn’t Phillip have a stronger password? It felt wrong, and disgusting, to go through his stuff, they knew it. But they needed to know. They needed to reassure themselves that Graves had nothing to do with this. His laptop was different from hers, he seemed to have darker apps and secrets to hide. It was odd and it frightened them. Finally, clicking randomly, their brows furrowed on a file named “Las Almas reports”. They sat back in the leather seat, trying to understand and trying to stop their racing minds from making any wrong allegations or theories. Phillip Graves was not that man. Maybe he worked for the Red Cross? The international branch? Maybe he went there to help the population and to understand what had happened? Trembling fingers opened the files, and that doomed their marriage.

When Phillip Graves came home, after another tiring meeting with Shepherd, he noticed the house was quiet. Strange, he thought, because he knew (Y/N) loved to blast music when they were home. And the house smelt nice, they had cleaned! The man removed his shoes, and put on his slippers. He looked around with a small smile. His spouse did a good work.

“Honey, I am home!” He called as he walked in the kitchen. There were bags of groceries on the counter and he took a peek. So they had planned a romantic dinner too? His smile grew wider. Great. That evening seemed fantastic. He had felt like he had been too hard on them and wanted to… be forgiven for their behavior. He had been feeling quite stressed since the Las Almas incident. Maybe he and (Y/N) could go on a vacation? They both needed it. “Honey? Where are you?” Phillip asked again as he walked around the kitchen. “Are you playing a prank on me?”

He heard someone going down the stairs. Phillip walked there, a smile still on his lips but it faded when he watched their spouse sitting down slowly on the stairs, with a gloom look on their face. Immediately, he grew worried. Did something happen to them? To their family? He knew they had felt quite stressed because of their work, and they were going to associate with a big museum in Paris.

“Honey, is everything okay?” He asked in an urgent tone. When he tried to go up the stairs to comfort them, (Y/N) glared at them. Oh, something was wrong, terribly wrong. “Are you okay? You are scaring me.”

“You are behind the Las Almas massacre.”

He froze entirely. His body shot down for a quick moment, and he hoped their spouse didn’t notice this. He quickly regained his composure and smiled at them warmly. There was no way they could know of this. He was careful and he believed (Y/N) respected their boundaries. Assuringly, he had locked his office as well. Phillip Graves had nothing to be concerned about. Maybe (Y/N) was exhausted and was hallucinating. He hoped, at least.

“What are you talking about, love?”

“You are the CEO of the Shadow Company, you are behind the Las Almas massacre and other disgusting private army stuff!” They yelled back at him, shoving a ton of documents in his face. “How can you do that?! You monster!”

“You went into my office?” He asked in a slow and dangerous tone, looking back at the documents. Phillip felt like his trust had been broken. “Why?”

“I wanted to surprise you! You always say how you long to have a traditional spouse that stays home, cleans and cooks and I wanted to make you happy!” (Y/N) ranted angrily, standing up. “That’s why you never mentioned your job, ugh? You lied to me! You murderer!”

Phillip stayed quiet. There was nothing to say, if they knew everything now. He couldn’t defend himself and he knew this. Still, he tried. Phillip attempted to calm down the situation. Surely, they didn’t know the whole story. He followed them as they furiously paced around in the living room now. He put the papers down and raised his hands.

“Honey, you have to relax. I will explain everything but you have to calm down, please.”

“How do you want me to be calm after I found out that you are behind some of the largest massacres in many countries?!” They screeched, hurting his ears.

“For fuck’s sake!” He pushed them down on the sofa, perhaps a bit too roughly, but they needed to hear his point of view. “Yes I did this. But I did it to protect you, to protect our country! Do you have any idea of what is going on out there?! No you don’t! Those people in Las Almas were working with a drug lord, from a dangerous cartel, I did what I had to! Those were my orders!”

They stared up at him like he was a monster but they didn’t say anything. There were only tears rolling down their face, and an incomprehensive look on their face. Breathing heavily, Phillip reached for the red wine bottle on the buffet and poured a heavy amount in two glasses. He brought one to his spouse, who just looked at the wall, they were dissociating. He sighed, and didn’t sit down next to them. He hoped they would understand.

“I love you, do you know that?” Phillip spoke in a softer tone. Then, he tried to change the subject because he was not getting a reaction. “Come on, let’s… let’s pretend this didn’t happen and have a nice evening together. We haven’t been able to do this in a long time. How is your friend by the way? The one who is pregnant? We should buy a gift for the baby-”

The evening went by smoothly. But (Y/N) hadn’t spoken. He feared he was losing them, but tried to calm himself down. This was an unfortunate event, tomorrow, he would explain to them what he was truly doing: defending the United States, saving the world, helping the locals… He was not a war criminal, not in his eyes. He was just a simple man, doing his job, and yes, sometimes, it included collateral damage. As he went to bed, he noticed (Y/N) was already asleep. He didn’t want to believe they were blatantly ignoring them. Phillip kissed their forehead softly before slipping under the covers and falling asleep.

(Y/N) waited for Phillip to go to work… if they could call it work. They felt disgusted with their husband’s actions. Sitting in bed, they wondered what they could do now. They had called in sick, because that’s what they felt. How could Phillip go on his normal day after killing people? They had hoped it was a nightmare but when they felt Phillip leave the bed… No it was not. Sighing, they tried to relax, to forget but they just couldn’t! Their husband was a goddamn war criminal! They didn’t know what to do.

Someone suddenly knocked on the door and rang the bell several times. Groaning, they put on a bathrobe and walked down the stairs. They opened the door, to reveal a young looking man with a cap on his head with the Union Jack on it. He smiled at them warmly. He was wearing a plumber uniform too. Tilting their head, (Y/N) tried to remember when they had called a plumber. Oh, maybe they have in the last few days! Work had been tiring and with what happened with Phillip… But they definitely had a leaking problem in the bathroom that Phillip had promised to take care of.

“Hello, am I at the right address?” The man spoke with a heavy English accent. They didn’t pay attention. “Did you call for a plumber?”

“Oh yes, I am sorry, it’s just- I am a bit sick. Please, come on in. From which company are you from?” They asked as they led the young man inside.

“The One Leak For All.”

They hummed. What an odd name. But the man didn’t look threatening so they led them to the bathroom upstairs. They walked past the office and (Y/N) shuddered, remembering everything that happened. They felt a little lighthearted but finally, they showed the leaking problem. The man knelt down and hummed as he inspected it.

“Ah yes, I see you problem.”

“Can you fix it today?”

“Sure. Let me get my buddy first.”

The man, whose name they learnt was Kyle, ran back outside and another man stepped in their house. He was taller and bulkier than Kyle with a strange looking mustache. (Y/N) tried not to laugh, but he was a walking stereotype of an Englishman. They felt bad for wearing a ripped shirt, old sweatpants and a tattered bathrobe in front of two specimen of the male specie. Both men started to work on the problem and (Y/N) stood in the corner. They had heard some noises coming from outside the bathroom but they didn’t pay any mind. Kyle and the man, John, fixed their bathroom’s sink. Feeling nice, they asked both men if they needed anything. They both replied they needed a cup of coffee. With a chuckle, (Y/N) led them to the kitchen, making them what they needed.

Kyle asked a question regarding their husband, after looking at the pictures on the wall and (Y/N) replied absently and without any emotions. John and him shared a look when they mentioned they were getting a divorce.

“That’s unfortunate.” John spoke with a nod. “But I guess you have your reasons.”

“Yes. You could say that.” (Y/N) replied, sighing. Then, they heard a strange sound coming from upstairs. They frowned. “What was that?” They said as they were starting to leave the kitchen.

“Would you like me to check it? Must be another problem with the pipes.” Kyle intervened.

“It didn’t sound like it came from the bathroom… But rather Phillip’s office-”

“I didn’t hear anything.” John brutally cut them. Then, he turned to look at Kyle. “Right son? Did you hear something?”

“No boss.”

“Well… I must have hallucinated then.” (Y/N) said as they turned back to the kitchen. They stayed there for a good five minutes before (Y/N) realized they needed to pay both men. They grabbed their checkbook and a pen. “Alright, how much do I owe you?”

“Uh, fifty dollars please.” John replied, looking embarrassed. (Y/N) wrote it down and gave the check to John. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome, thank you for coming. I hope you didn’t forget any tools.” They smiled at both men who laughed.

“Don’t worry. We got everything.” Kyle winked at them before walking back to their small van. “Have a good day, miss. Stay safe.”

(Y/N) then locked the door as usual and took a very warm shower. They dressed up and walked past Phillip’s office. They noticed that it was a bit open. How odd. Sighing, they grabbed the handle and closed the door. Phillip didn’t need them to snoop around again. But they guessed they needed to leave for a while. So, they grabbed three suitcases and a large bag, putting their clothes and products in it as well as their shoes. They left a note for Phillip on the living room’s table. It felt weird to leave after living together for so long. But (Y/N) needed time after learning everything. They sighed and closed the door. Their friend Camille agreed to welcome them in her home. Did they think about the divorce? Yes.

Would Phillip accept it? No. They were sure of it.

#n speaks #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #x gender neutral reader #cod mw2 #cod x reader

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twisted-wonderland-but-gayer · 5 months

Note

feel free to delete if this makes you uncomfortable. I saw on your rules dark content is fine, but I know yandere stuff can be a trigger in particular with its many aspects (stalking, murder, etc)

TW: Yandere, violence, kidnapping

im curious how a yandere Yuu would vibe with the great 7. they aren't good people (duh) but would they at least try to keep Yuu on a somewhat good path? even if its a student the 7 like, like the dorm leaders, their number one is Yuu, so I can't imagine they'd feel bothered, in addition to the being evil. And with half the cast having angsty backstories, I cant imagine it would be hard to make some justicifacation (I messed that up, didn't I?) for kidnapping the object of Yuus afection

Queen of Hearts: "Well of course I helped my Rose with young Riddle! Its so sweet to see such a happy couple, and honestly, why wouldn't he love this? A nice space for the two of them, free from *that* woman, allowed to indulge in whatever he likes! As long as he doesn't break my Rose's rules, sure he'll need some time to adjust, but they have the rest of their lives to spend together! :)"

Jafar: "So maybe its not Jamil's ideal, but what's there to complain about? Travelling the world together, free from the Al-Sims,and a nice home to come back to, where the housework is split evenly so he doesn't have to do it all. I just hope he doesn't try Snake Whisper again, or else his eyes may have to go. The ingrate may just deserve it, he has all he wants but still is fighting my poor gem"

Idk if i understand this but

Tbh I don't really care for yanderes– don't get me wrong the concept is cool but I feel it's never done right, it's either always tropey or overly edgy– but the 7 encouraging Yuu to be as deranged at they are is great. I mean look at Male and Grimhilde, they'd definitely be like "if he doesn't like you– lock him up!!

Meanwhile Hades advice depends on which story you believe. It's either "go kidnapp them and feed them a pomegranate" or "idk leave your house unlocked and if they love you they will walk in and make themselves home"

#not writing #not requests #the great 7 parents

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shinynewboots · 2 months

Text

Sweet Nothings: An Alastor Story (18+)

Summary: Alastor loved his wife. His beautiful, angelic wife with the perfectly imperfect chip in her front tooth. His poor wife, who whispered sweet nothings into his ear as he killed a man.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT: Angst, assault, implied sexual assault, murder, blood, gore, mutilation, death, corpses, hallucinations, decomposition, Alastor before Hell

AN: Definitely one of the darkest things I've ever written. I hope you all enjoy it!

AO3

Alastor entered the house, discarding his shoes as he always did lest his wife playfully scold him about the dirt and mud he was liable to track into the foyer. She was right, of course, as Louisiana found itself stuck into the crevices and empty spaces of his shoes, skin, and soul. His mother used to scold him for the same thing (never his father however, and so she spent most of her days sweeping the house free of the bayou rather than face his wrath).

He dutifully went to the kitchen and began to prepare them a pot of coffee to wind down and discuss their days over. The kitchen was tidy, as his wife preferred it that way.

“What if we have guests, Alastor? I can’t have them thinkin’ we’re livin’ in a pig stye.” She replied whenever he felt she was working too hard on the housework and expressed as much to her. They never did have guests, but he appreciated the sentiment

He grabbed the two mugs of coffee, his black and hers a creamy tan color (5 sugars and 2 dashes of cream). She preferred the sweeter things in life. He had no idea why she had chosen to marry him, as his soul was as bitter as the black liquid he held.

“Here you are, darlin’,” He said, dropping the ‘g’ like a sticky southern night as he set the coffee beside her chair. She sat quietly, watching the fireplace. The radio that sat on the side table played gentle static.

“How was your day, cher ?” He asked, dropping in the chair beside her and facing the fireplace. He looked over at her and took in the delicate softness of her face, the gentle lines that crinkled when she smiled at him. Her wispy blonde hair glowed against the fire and it took everything in him not to brush it behind her ear just as an excuse to touch her.

She didn’t answer him. She rarely did when they were alone anymore. Not that this bothered Alastor, he could talk enough to appease the both of them. She preferred it that way anyway, listening to him talk. She was always more reserved, a bit of a wallflower.

“Well, the show went well, darlin’, as always. Though I know you listened to it. I did play a new song by that Ellington fellow.” Alastor said, taking a sip of the bitter liquid. “ Mood Indigo. A tad somber, but I found I quite liked the mystery of it.”

She didn’t respond, but he could tell by her expression towards the fireplace that she agreed with his assessment.

“I did also run into Mimzy, oh don’t give me that look,” He jested as he thought he saw her expression drop. “You know she adores you. She asked why she hadn’t seen us at the club in a while.”

Another sip. “Oh course, I gave her your condolences and alluded to your health. I hope you don’t mind darlin’.”

Of course, she didn’t mind. She would be up in arms if she had.

Alastor smiled at her, a bright brilliant smile, more genuine than the one he wore around town. He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, his large hand completely covering her small, bony one.

“I do so enjoy our evenings together, darlin’.”

His enchanting wife had been eager to accompany him on his unsavory nighttime activities. She always had an eye for finding his newest victim. Her preferred targets of choice were men who harassed women on the street. Men who got a little too handsy with a young lady who was too far deep into the giggle water. Men who found pleasure and little shame in antagonizing the women of New Orleans.

Alastor found he agreed with his wife’s choices. Even if she hadn’t egged him on, he would have come to the same conclusion of victim himself. He could still remember the day he had saved her from being a victim of an unsavory character himself.

He had heard her call out from a New Orleans sidestreet and by the grace of some divine being, he had managed to find her with a man’s hand around her throat and his hands under her dress so far that he could see her cotton slip. She had screamed and struggled against the assailant, her cherubic face contorted into terror.

The noises, the high-pitched scream she made as the man attempted to violate her in the most unimaginable way would visit Alastor in his sleep. It was the worst noise he had ever heard in his life and they haunted him. The fact that he was almost too late to save his beautiful mourning dove haunted him (in an even worse way than the way his mother enduring his father’s abuse stuck with him deep in his bones).

She had been radio silent since the assault, except when she went with him on the prowl for their latest victim. Alastor relished these moments when his angel of a wife would whisper her sweet nothings in his ear, goading him into murdering these dregs of society.

“Slit his throat, my love,” She whispered, her breath sweet like muscadine wine as she stared at Alastor with the reverence reserved for a saint. “I want to watch’m bleed.”

And what could Alastor do but oblige when his wife asked him so sweetly, her doe brown eyes afire with blood lust.

“Please,” The pathetic man begged in front of him. Alastor stared down at him, his smile wide and maniacal. How he loved when they begged for their worthless lives. She never said as much, but he knew his wife loved it as well. “Please don’t kill me.”

The man in front of him had followed a girl, no older than 17, as she walked down the street in the moonlight, out of the safety of the street lights. The man had approached her, leering at her as he pulled the girl closer to him, his hand cupping her breast as she cried fat tears and let out panted breaths.

“A perfect victim,” His wife had said as she pointed out the man. And that was all it took.

“You’ll have to beg better than that,” Alastor laughed, his knife teasing at the man’s throat. Alastor had already cut at the man’s thighs, striking him down to save the poor girl. Blood seeped through the man’s trousers, and he could swear he could smell piss as well.

“Please, please sir, let me go,” The man cried.

“Alastor, please,” His wife asked. And like a good husband, he did as he was told, and slid the knife across the man’s throat. Blood poured from the man’s neck as he let out a distraught scream and tried to fight against Alastor who moved to stand before him like the devil himself.

The man struggled, crawling towards Alastor while he held at his slit throat. His efforts were in vain as she crumpled to the ground, his eyes turning glassy as he stared into the New Orleans night sky.

“Stand back darlin’, wouldn’t want to dirty that pretty white dress,” Alastor said, moving towards the man to gather the body and take him to their dumping grounds. His wife smiled sweetly and moved so that the blood pooling in the alley wouldn’t dirty her.

Alastor’s brown suit was utterly stained, but his wife had been good about teaching him how to get out the best of stains. She would accompany him on his kills but never clean his clothes of their evidence.

“Your mess,” She would say with a teasing shrug.

Alastor gathered the body as his wife stood in the shadows and the two made their descent into the bayou to gut and dispose of their latest victim.

Like the skilled precision of an untrained surgeon, Alastor would lay the victim in the mud of the bayou and begin extracting the organs. He had always been fascinated by anatomy as a child, and perhaps if his family had enough money he would have gone on and become a surgeon. But as it were, he was a radio host and so he would have to make do with the diagrams he learned from in the anatomy books.

“And what’s that, my love,” His wife would ask, bending down while he worked. The victim’s abdomen had flayed open (with the use of a midline vertical incision from the xiphoid process to the pubic bone). Alastor had gone to work, taking stock of the organs at his disposal. He had learned that he typically had about 2 hours before the body began to stiffen, so he would make work as quickly as he could.

“That, mon cher, is the liver,” He said, pulling the large organ from the abdominal cavity. “It’s the largest solid organ in the body.”

“Well now, you’re just showing off.” She said, laughing with her mouth open wide enough so that he could see the small chip in her front tooth that he loved so much. She had always been self-conscious of it, and would rarely smile with her teeth out as a result. But he loved that endearing imperfection that added character to her features.

Blood coated his arms, his legs, and his abdomen as he laughed along with his wife. Blood had spattered on his face, drying with the air and beginning to flake.

He and his wife would continue their morbid trivia, her asking about a particular body part and he answering until the man had been completely gutted and buried beneath the bayou.

The truth of the matter was that he did not save his wife that night.

No.

He had found her body splayed out for all of New Orleans to see in an alley when she had been on her way home from the butcher while buying ingredients for dinner.

Her doe brown eyes looked up at his with no thought, no emotion. Glassy and dead. Her throat held angry purple bruises as he realized she had been choked to death by an unknown bastard who deserved the eternity of hellfire.

The beautiful white dress she had worn was filthy with blood and dirt. She would have hated being found in such a state. Embarrassed. Full of shame.

And the blood. The warm, copious amount of blood that had poured down her legs told him everything he needed to know about what had transpired. And so he had gathered his beautiful wife in his arms and cradled her close.

His heart was broken when his mother died. His heart ceased beating as he held his precious wife. His large tears began to coat her face as he sobbed against her body. Blood coated her mouth, trailing down to her chin and dripping on the beautiful white dress.

He leaned down and kissed her bloodied masterpiece of a mouth, and felt her taste upon his tongue for the last time. The iron and copper taste filled his senses as he tasted the last evidence he had of her being alive at one point in time.

The last tears fell from his cheeks before he wiped his eyes and cleaned the blood from her mouth. He shrugged off his overcoat and used it to cover her body, gathering her in his arms to take her home. She would want to be at home.

With her covered and his arms, it was as though she were asleep.

Of course she was asleep.

He had carried her in such a way many times when she had fallen asleep in front of her beloved fireplace. This was no different.

He had gotten her home with none the wiser and ran the tub. He knew she hated being dirty and so he would remedy the situation.

“My day was rather subpar, darlin’. You know Night & Day by Fred Astaire has been one of the most requested songs even this year, and I must confess I tire of it, my darling.” He said as he scrubbed the blood and dirt from her body. Her head had fallen back against the head of the tub, as though she lay in relaxation while being pampered.

He took great care to clean under her fingernails, scrubbing until the blood was gone. Bruises dotted the inside of her thigh in the shape of handprints. He chose not to see that. He cleaned the dried blood from her wispy blonde hair, already fretting about the styling that would need to be done once she was out of the tub.

Perhaps she could fix it later.

He continued to tell her about his day as she gently cleaned her. The water ran a rusty color and the dirt collected at the bottom. He would have to scrub that out once he was done. She despised a dirty tub.

He pulled her from the tub and dried her off. Her body was already beginning to stiffen and so he had to work fast. He grabbed one of his favorite dresses of hers from the closet, a beautiful red number that paired beautifully with the rouge and red lipstick she wore.

He set to work covering her body with her undergarments, the brassiere covering her perfect pale breasts, and the bloomers covering her unmentionables. He had even been proud of his attention to detail as he slid the stocking and garter up her legs. He threw the slip over her before finally finishing the outfit with the red dress and red heels to match.

He tried his best to apply the rouge and lipstick as he had seen her do a thousand times. He was somewhat proud of himself, though he knew she could fix any imperfections.

He sat her in her chair in front of the fireplace in the family room. She loved to relax in front of the fire when he came home from work and ask him about his day.

She would be happy there. Content.

Alastor never did know who had broken and murdered his perfect wife. However, the week after finding his wife, he came across his first victim, a piece of shit man harassing a woman on the street. And his wife had appeared for the first time and begun to whisper her sweet nothings in his ear.

“Maybe this was him, my love,” She said, her words tickling his soul.

And he would kill every man in New Orleans if it meant he avenged his beautiful wife. If it meant he could see her one more time.

On the night Alastor died, he felt more at peace than he had felt in months.

He stood in the dark of the bayou, shoveling to make a hole deep enough for his next victim. His beautiful wife stood to the side, watching him with a peaceful smile. He had killed fourteen men since the death of his wife.

The news outlets had started catching wind of the disappearances, especially when Alastor became particularly sloppy with one fellow and had buried him too shallow.

The Bayou Butcher, they called him.

The notion caused his wife to tease him in his hallucinations, and laugh at the moniker. He could only grin at the sound of her laughter. Her voice had started to fade, become distorted like the lost signal on a radio broadcast.

His memory of her voice had begun to fade, and he found himself growing more brutal in his kills just to hear that twinkling sound once more. She always talked to him more the bloodier he got. But the sound of her voice still began to fade.

He had been rather surprised when he was shot in the head. The gunshot rang out through the trees, quickly followed by the sound of hunting dogs.

Alastor’s eyes widened as blood began to drip into his eyelashes, distorting his vision. But he could still see her. His beloved wife who had driven him to madness.

“Alastor,” She whispered, her voice fading and her small smile turning into a frown.

“My love,” He tried to say but the words wouldn’t come out. His vision grew black and he could no longer see the ghost of his beautiful wife.

“Goodbye, Alastor.” The wind whispered as he fell into the half-dug grave of his last victim.

The Bayou Butcher had a total of fifteen victims, according to the newspaper. Once the police had found the identity of the despicable man, they raided the house and found the horrible sight of his last victim, his wife.

The corpse sat in front of the fireplace, the decomposition of her body pooling around her as she rotted into the chair. Her body was dry, almost mummified as she was positioned in such a way that it looked as though she were simply staring towards the fireplace.

Her eye sockets, the eyes long gone, stared forward as though to gaze at the wedding photo of her and her husband, Alastor. In the photo, Alastor stood brightly at the camera, his grin wider and more genuine than any could ever remember on the man. And to his right stood his beautiful wife whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

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