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hyunsvngs · 11 months

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kinktober !

kink: tentacles

pairing: kim seungmin x fem!reader

wc: 2.3k

tentacle kink: a sexual interest in tentacles and the imagined creatures that have them.

It had to work. You would die if it didn’t work.

Then again, you’d probably die if it did work. You’re trying to summon Slenderman, after all. No one would understand why except for you. You’ve always had an affinity for all things macabre and dangerous, and maybe you’re a little messed up. After deep diving on Reddit, you were more than dubious that the creature actually existed. You had to find out. You had to see for yourself.

Clearly not that bad, because you hadn’t gone into the woods like they’d told you to online. The October weather was ultimately too cold to be trekking through branches and fallen leaves, even to try and summon your favourite Creepypasta entity - you did the second option instead, drawing a quick symbol on your wall with marker and all of the lights turned out.

The poem felt a little silly coming from your lips, despite Reddit users insisting it’s mandatory for the summoning. It felt even sillier when you stared at the symbol, barely visible through the moonlight flooding in beyond the curtains, but you had to persevere. If he was real, he’d come to your room and meet you. If he was real.

You ended the poem, finally opening your eyes and sighing. You blinked at the wall, quickly looking around the room. What a load of bullshit. Slenderman isn’t real, then. You’d proved it for yourself, and-

“This is fucking ridiculous,” There was a thud behind you, and you spun around on your bed, hazily trying to see who had joined you in your room. You reached over with a squeak, flicking your lamp on. There, in what almost looked like the Slenderman from your dreams - a man, dressed in a suit and dark, ebony hair pushed back from his forehead. He kicked an imaginary stone with his shoe, shoving his broad hands into his pockets and finally looking up at you. He blinked at you a few times, and then raised an eyebrow. “Why are you scared? Did you not ask for this?”

You huffed. “Well, you’re not Slenderman.”

The man groaned, head rolling back. He cracked his neck effortlessly on both sides, and then stared back into your eyes. His gaze was piercing, dark and feeling all too consuming. “I am- I’m like his brother, but not in the way you humans adhere to. He sends me for cases like yours. Minor, petty things.”

“Cases like mine?” You scoffed, resisting the urge to punch the man in his annoyingly attractive face. He wandered over to your desk, wholly unaffected, and started to flick through your diary. “Hey-!”

“Cases like yours,” He repeated, a small smile flickering on his lips at one of the pages. “Sexually charged cases. You are a little fucked up, aren’t you?”

You bristled. You knew exactly what page he was looking at. Your diary was for mundane things, your day-to-day life, but it was also where you detailed your more… late night fantasies. Recently, some rather obscure things had been taking up the majority of your brain, and maybe that’s what had pushed you to summon Slenderman. You’d never admit that, though.

In all honesty, this guy was kind of hot. You weren’t sure if it was the mysterious atmosphere about him, if he was clearly otherworldly judging from his alabaster skin, or if it was his long legs in those suit trousers. If you were of a different state of mind, you’d have believed he was the entity you were trying to reach. There was just one thing.

“Aren’t you a bit short to be related to Slenderman?”

The man stopped. He sighed, and then shut the diary, before turning to you with one long, accusing finger. “First off, I’m not that short. Secondly, I told you, it’s not the same as what you humans think siblings are. Also, I don’t have to prove myself to you.”

You grinned. “You just tried though, right?”

He rolled his eyes, stalking over to the bed. “I think I’ll kill you sooner than I planned. You’re rude.”

“You’re rude too,” You huffed, trying to kick him in the leg from your position on your bed. Instead of catching it with his hands, a pitch-black tentacle sprouted from his back and wrapped around your ankle, effectively pinning it down and rendering you motionless. You gasped, and he raised an eyebrow. “What the-”

“We do have some similarities,” The man began, drawing the tentacle tighter. “We’re of the same species, for one. I suppose I’m not as prestigious as him, but you seem happy enough to have me here, right?”

You blinked. “I would actually prefer if you left, in all honesty.”

“Can’t,” He shrugged, withdrawing the tentacle. Your ankle flopped back to the bed and you grabbed it instinctively, slightly disappointed to feel no traces of the slimy limb. “I need to kill you. It’s in the rulebook, you know? Once you’ve seen one of us, you have to die, or my mission will fail.”

What were you meant to do in this situation? You didn’t really want to die. You hadn’t thought the whole thing through at all. You’d expected to just see traces of the entity, perhaps catch him from the corner of your eye - you were instead left with a sexy long-limbed man standing in front of your bed, basked in the soft orange glow of your bedside lamp.

“Why kill me when you could fuck me instead?” You’d said the first thing that came to mind. The man’s jaw dropped, before it quickly reverted back to normal, his head tilting to the side in confusion.

“You are pretty weird, aren’t you? Unusual. A little fucked up, like I said.”

“That wasn’t a no,” You hummed. The man’s eyes burnt a trail down your legs, exposed in your sleep shorts, and then his eyes were fixated on a patch of skin revealed on your shoulder from where your shirt had slipped to the side. You scoffed, yanking the shirt back into place. “Oh my God, you want to, don’t you?! That’s why you haven’t left!”

He shrugged. “I’ve never fucked a human. It could be fun.”

You blanched. Okay, you hadn’t expected to get this far. After you had, though… Well, he had tentacles. That was something from your deepest, darkest desires, something that you would try to push to the back of your brain and scrunch your eyes shut tightly with your hand shoved down your pyjama trousers. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. You were already getting wet, clit throbbing with need.

He started to move towards you. First, it was one knee on the bed, and then the other joined, starting a slow crawl that resulted in his face getting closer. You hadn’t realised you were moving closer, too, and you gulped. “What’s- what’s your name?”

The man chuckled, face only inches from yours now. His face looked young, you noticed, yet his eyes held a wildfire inside as if there was so much you didn’t know. There was so much you wanted to know. “Seungmin.”

You had no time to debate it, because his lips were pressing against yours. They were soft, plush, and you found yourself whimpering into his kiss. He’d effectively shut you up. Without a second passing, Seungmin was dominating your mouth, pressing his tongue in and rolling it against yours. How did just a kiss feel so good?

You let him push you back into the sheets, forearms landing on your pillow either side of your head for purchase. He deepened the kiss, his hands moving to tangle in your hair as he held you in place. You felt your pussy flutter, achingly horny despite the lack of stimulation, and your breath caught in your chest.

Seungmin pulled away and you licked your lips, chest heaving. “I.. can I see them?”

“See what?” He mused, thumb brushing along your lower lip. One look at the amused expression on his face told you that he knew.

“The…” You gulped, legs parting to allow him closer to you. His bulge was thick, pressing tightly against your core. “The tentacles, Seungmin. Can I see them? How many are there?”

“Four, baby,” He leaned down, nipping at your neck. You gasped, hips bucking up, choosing not to comment on the pet name in your haze of lust. “I can put one in your pussy, one in your asshole and one in your mouth. How’s that? Is that dirty enough for you?”

You whimpered, grinding on his bulge. Seungmin allowed it, hands moving to your hips to aid your movement. It had your sleep shorts slipping around, fabric sticking to the wetness accumulated on your folds. You whined, arms thrashing until they settled around his broad shoulders, still clad in his expensive-looking suit. “What about your cock, Seungmin?”

“My cock?” Seungmin scoffed, running his tongue up your neck. It made you squirm, thighs clenching around his slender waist. His hair tickled your skin, dark and perfect as if he’d spent hours styling it. You knew he hadn’t. “I can fuck you without needing to cum, baby. I doubt I can say the same for you.”

“No, I’ll- I’ll probably cum as soon as you put one in, to be honest,” You admitted, cheeks burning crimson with embarrassment.

“Hmm, that makes a lot of sense,” Seungmin reached down, yanking your sleeping shorts down. It bared your pussy to the room, cold air hitting your clit and the slick on your pussy. It made you jolt, squeaking as Seungmin saw you in such an intimate way. “You’re wet. Are you feeling impatient? Needy, even?”

“Yes! Yes, God, I need it,” You huffed, spreading your thighs further. You were practically spread eagle now, and you ran your fingertips over the soft expanse of your tummy, just barely visible below your shirt. You continued the journey down your body, looking up at Seungmin with pleading eyes, and then you pressed two fingers into your clit. You flinched, wailing at the stimulation. “Ah, I’m so horny, I’m so horny, what the fuck-”

“Stay still, I’ll give it to you,” Seungmin murmured, and then you caught sight of them again. Four pitch-black tentacles sprouted from his back, seeming to forego his clothes and then one was tickling at your entrance. You moaned, because were they suckers?

It was easy to learn that yes, his tentacles had suckers, and he was now brushing one over your clit. You obediently moved your hands out of the way, back to their position on his shoulders. It sucked onto the swollen bundle of nerves with ease, and just as you started to squirm, another tentacle was pressing into your tight, drippy hole. You could feel the amount of slick you’d gushed beneath you, ruining your bed and quite possibly ruining you for any other man. The appendage itself was lubed, brushing through your own wetness and creating a filthy noise that rang throughout your bedroom.

“Don’t squirm,” Seungmin commanded, hand running up your thigh comfortingly. The tentacle pushed in further, and you clenched, wet, heavy breaths coming from your mouth. “That’s it, good girl. Let it push inside you, just like that.”

The tentacle was narrow at the tip, but it flared much further out after an inch or so. The stretch made your pussy leak even more than what was imaginable. You didn’t think you’d ever been this wet. The appendage was long, but Seungmin kept pushing more and more until you were taking around five inches of it, and you whined, reaching down to press at his stomach.

“Too big, too much,” You protested, but Seungmin shushed you, pressing a kiss into your cheek.

“Your pussy’s just too little, baby. Too tight,” He grunted, and then he pushed another inch in. “Take it. Take it for me, and I might think about giving you my cock later.”

“Your- would you?” Your eyes were teary, toes curling into the bed. “Been good. Tryin’ to take it, ‘s just- it’s so thick, so long. Seungmin, Seungmin, sir, sir, you said you- you’re not gonna kill me?”

“How can I kill such a sweet thing?” His hand moved to your cheek, before moving down, wrapping around your neck. The pressure was light, but very much there, making you moan out into your room. “You’re whining so pretty for me. Calling me sir, taking this just like it’s my cock. You’re dirty. I have to keep you around, don’t I?”

You nodded, legs thrashing on the bed. Your chest heaved, a blotchy pink rash overtaking your skin. “It’s good, it’s so good, so thick, oh- Oh, I think I might…?”

“You think you’re gonna cum?” Seungmin scoffed. “Already? Alright, do it. I’ll let you. Just this once, okay?”

You keened, hands gripping onto his shoulders. Your fingernails must have been digging into him almost painfully, but he didn’t flinch, staring straight at you with the same dark, piercing gaze. Your pussy clenched down, tight and fluttering, and then you were-

You gasped, eyes fluttering open as you attempted to look around your bedroom. The sun had just begun to rise, but your boyfriend was awake, and pulled you into his chest upon seeing your eyes open.

“Sounded like hell of a dream,” Seungmin smirked, his eyebrow raising. You bit your lip, staring up at him. “Was it about me?”

“Always is,” You mumbled, burying your face in his shirt. He chuckled, shoulders shaking as he rubbed down your back with a tender, broad hand. “It was dirty.”

“Yeah? Another reenactment of how we first met?”

You sighed, brushing your hand down one of his tentacles. It laid bare on your bed, and twitched with approval as you fidgeted with it.

“Yeah, something like that.”

#hyunsvngbinitober !#kim seungmin smut #stray kids smut #stray kids fanfics #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #kim seungmin x reader #kim seungmin fanfic #kim seungmin fic #seungmin x reader #seungmin fanfic #seungmin smut #skz scenarios #skz smut #skz imagines #skz x reader

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strong-with-the-sarcasm · 5 months

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Social Media Time #1

[Social media is a big thing, so what's going on with Gotham's own accounts?] Main Masterlist Regent Masterlist Mundane Macabre

[#1: The Justice League declares that the GIW is in violation of the Metahuman rights act and that they nearly caused an interdimensional war.]

[#2: The vigilante Phantom publically posts his thanks to Batman.]

[#3: phantom's puns are officially certified to make a rogue cry.]

[#4: Red Hood getting a vote in his own ship name. :) ]

Free Nightingale @thewanderer = Ellie Nightingale Star child @nasanerd = Danny Nightingale

Social Media AU: #2

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc au #dc x dp crossover #regent!jazz #hardcover ship #anger management ship #jason todd #red hood #social media au #somewhere on the timeline this exists #once again brought to you by internet and insomnia

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thelonelyshore-if · 9 months

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Meet me at the cabin. Please.

You weren’t sure what to make of it. A cryptic late night text sent from your younger sibling, begging you to meet up at your family’s old lake home. The plea for help was as concerning as it was confusing. As far as you knew, neither of you had set foot in the cabin in a decade. You had your hesitations, but Willow seemed desperate. You couldn’t help but oblige.

Everything goes downhill fast when Willow's research into childhood ghost stories lands you in a town that doesn't exist. A town where people go missing at an alarming rate, where things that aren't quite human run businesses with hungry eyes, where time runs differently.

A town you can't leave.

Something about Easthaven is wrong. A supernatural fog permeates the town, so thick you could choke…but you’re one of the only people who seems to notice it. You’re quick to realize the fog keeps the residents ignorant, keeps them passive, keeps them trapped. When people who have long since gone missing start coming back home, you realize Easthaven’s mysteries go deeper than you could have ever imagined.

Explore the magic and the horrors of the small town of Easthaven, team up with the few others who can see through the fog, and do everything you can to make your way back home.

The Lonely Shore is an 18+ supernatural horror story (and mystery) inspired by works such as Midnight Mass, The Mist, Scarlet Hollow, and Gravity Falls. A story about how sometimes places can feel like people, how easy it is to do terrible things for those we love, and how small towns have a way of eating you alive.

FEATURES:

Play as male, female, or nonbinary; trans or cis. Choose up to two sets of pronouns or input your own. Customize your appearance and develop your personality throughout the game.

Romance or befriend a cast of characters. Options for ace and aro routes, as well as three polyamorous paths.

Customize Willow, your younger sibling. Select their gender and determine what your relationship with them is. Will you rebuild a broken relationship? Or let a good one go down in flames?

Explore the world of Easthaven, a town that exists outside of time, separated completely from the rest of the world. A place where tragedy is mundane and death is around every corner. Encounter the Fog, the source of all of Easthaven’s horrors.

Build up to one of five distinct magic styles as your character comes to life; including necromancy, clairvoyance, manipulating the Fog, becoming something monstrous–or suppressing your magic instead, having it come out in uncontrollable bursts.

Solve the mystery of the Returned: citizens who have been missing for months, years, decades but who have recently started coming back home.

CHARACTERS:

Jaylen 'Jay' Jones (M/F)

A veterinarian-in-training and member of the town's Search & Rescue team who has seen Easthaven's horrors firsthand. A kindhearted but wary person who cares more about keeping people safe than they do about solving the town's mysteries. They're tired of losing people.

Yasmin Bakir-King (F)

The local librarian, a fiercely clever widow with very little patience for nonsense. Very outgoing, she's one of the most well-known figures in town. She starts the story unaware of Easthaven's dangers but very quickly gets thrust into the middle of the town's latest mystery.

Amir/Amara "Croft" (M/F)

A reclusive, ill-tempered horror author who just so happens to be the town's latest newcomer…until you show up. Croft came to town with their share of secrets, and there's nothing in the world they want more than to escape Easthaven.

Beck Dawn (genderfluid)

Fun-loving and reckless, Beck is an adrenaline junkie who can't seem to stay out of danger…despite being completely unaware of the town's secrets. A magnet for trouble, it's no surprise Beck lands right in the middle of Easthaven's latest mystery.

Ravi Singh (M)

Easthaven's local mortician. Ravi is easygoing and quick to laugh; though sometimes his humor leans towards the macabre. But his easy smiles don't cover up his almost chilling comfort with the Fog; nor do they get rid of the pile of skeletons in his closet.

Perri Loveless (M/F/NB)

Runs one of Easthaven's three radio stations. In the day they play music, and at night they host a supernatural-themed call in radio show, The Lonely Shore. Perri is an enthusiastic (if a bit awkward) person whose theories tend towards the unbelievable. It's unfortunate that, despite all of their theories, Perri has no idea what's actually going on in Easthaven.

And…

"Willow" (M/F/NB)

Your little sibling. Flighty, impulsive, and outgoing; their fascination with the occult is what lands you in Easthaven. Your relationship can range from best friends to sworn enemies. Will they be able to save you from the mess they've made?

LINKS:

DEMO | ROs | Content Warnings

( current wordcount : 225,095 without code )

#interactive fiction #if intro #choicescript #dashingdon #hosted games #if wip

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blackleatherjacketz · 4 months

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Shadow and Sin: Chapter 1

Klaus Mikaelson x Female Reader

Summary: Having just recently moved to New Orleans, you get intimately acquainted with both Mikaelson brothers, but don't find out who they truly are until it's too late.

This Chapter: Your art is finally put on display at a local gallery, and Klaus has a vested interest in it.

Warnings: Klaus Being Klaus, No Personal Space, Alcohol, Flirting, Almost Kisses, Art Interpretation, Dark Themes

Word Count: 1.2k+

Read the rest of the story HERE

Your first art show in New Orleans isn’t nearly as extravagant as you thought it would be, despite the small jazz band in the corner and the free champagne being served at the door. The jubilant music seems to fade off into the distance as you stand just a few feet away from one of your pieces, silently stalking the patrons as they walk by and observe it, muttering amongst themselves. You try to hone in on what they’re saying about your work, about how it makes them feel, or if they’ve caught onto any messages you’ve hidden in your mixed medium on canvas. So far it’s just been a mixture of silence and solitary comments like “interesting” or “hmm” as the glass of champagne warms to room temperature in your hand.

“Which one’s yours?” A man’s eloquent voice pulls you from your anxious thoughts, forcing you to look over at his delicately handsome face as he walks toward you with a confidence that could rival royalty.

“Huh?” You take a sip of your lukewarm champagne in order to gain some liquid courage to engage with this gorgeous man who seemed to appear out of thin air.

“I’d recognize that look anywhere,” he starts, touching one of the sculptures he clearly wasn’t supposed to. “Will they like it? Will they understand it? But most importantly, will they buy it?”

“That obvious, huh?” You take another sip, letting the bubbles take their time to crinkle your nose as the rest of the carbonation slowly fizzles out.

“Painfully, I’m afraid.” That smirk of his warms into a coy smile as he takes a step toward you, his own glass of champagne nearly empty. “Yours isn’t the landscape with the sailboat, no… those waters look far too calm for you.” He stands next to you and continues to guess, letting his fresh clean scent surround you as hints of a bergamont settle into the air. “Not the still life either, you don’t strike me as someone who focuses on something as mundane as coffee and beignets.” He pauses and looks at you briefly, taking in your features. “No, a work of art from your hands has to contain something different, something much… darker.”

“And what makes you think that?” You chide in return, enjoying this little game he’s created for himself. “Maybe I love coffee and beignets.”

“Well, darling, who doesn’t? But that’s not why you became an artist, now is it?” He raises his eyebrows, giving you a chance to notice the hints of green and gold in his blue eyes.

He was good, you’ll give him that.

“My money’s on the portrait of the faceless woman drenched in blood.” His tone drops to the level of darkness he previously described as he steps behind you, his voice like butter as it melts down each vertebrae of your spine. “It’s beautiful, really; the way you captured the themes of the tortured and macabre while still maintaining an intimate beauty of the feminine experience. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

His change in tambre and location freezes you in place, forcing you to look at your own painting through his eyes as he hovers behind you, making you shiver with the anticipation of his intentions. The fact that you’ve allowed him to get this close so fast makes you wrestle with the idea that you may already desire this stranger based on nothing more than the words he’s chosen to speak with that velvety voice of his. Are you that subject to flattery? That desperate for validation? Longing that deeply for some level of intimate connection? Perhaps you are...

After what seems like an eternity of moral gymnastics, you no longer resist the temptation to turn toward him as he guesses correctly, noting the triumphant look on his face as your lips linger mere inches away from his. You barely notice the still breath that remains inside your lungs, expanding your rib cage for far too long as you stare at his plump lips, taking heed of the single droplet of champagne that rests on them.

“And what makes you such an expert on the feminine experience?” You manage to ask as he allows you to stare at him a little bit longer before answering your question.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m merely a curious third party who’s invested in the local artists that my charitable donations help support.” He confesses with a step back.

“You’re a benefactor?” You don’t mean to sound so judgmental, but he doesn’t exactly look like most of the ancient relics who usually pour money into the city. If you’re being honest, he looks more like one of the musicians you’d find on the street corner playing a cover of ‘Wonderwall’ on guitar for tips.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, love, we come in all shapes and sizes.” He laughs, looking you up and down while the shock of his financial status slowly begins to wear off. “Now, tell me, was I right? Is that your painting?”

“Maybe.” You cross her arms over your chest, trying your best to resist his evident charms. “But you already knew that, being a benefactor and all; that’s cheating.”

“Cheating is such a harsh word. I merely used my astute powers of observation to put two and two together.” He casually places his hand on your shoulder with a gentle squeeze in order to keep you near. “Surely, you can’t fault me for that.”

“I suppose not.” Your heart races at his sudden touch, the gleam in his eyes barely hiding the raging fire behind them. He’s going to be trouble, you can already tell. “Do you flirt like this with every new artist you meet?”

“Just the morbidly disturbed ones that I find deeply enchanting.” His strange compliment is oddly personal, hinting that he might know a little bit more about you than he’s currently letting on.

“You think I’m morbidly disturbed?”

He gives you a knowing look.

“Oh, it’s all over the canvas, love. It doesn’t take an expert to notice the hurried brush strokes in the busy background, the aggression with which you plastered the feminist news clippings together contrasted against the time you took to purposefully pour the viscous, slow drip of blood on it until it’s nearly spilling onto the floor.” He closes the gap between you, his hand now in your hair.

You swallow hard as he fishes around in your psyche for an accurate interpretation of your work, his proximity nearly turning your insides to quicksand as his cologne dizzies you on the spot. Good god, he’s beautiful.

“You know there are other ways of releasing all that pent up rage and aggression… all that passion.” He leans in so that his lips ghost over your cheek as it blushes against his stubble. “Although they aren’t quite as lucrative as this.”

“And what would those be?” You ask coyly, eagerly daring him to show you.

But instead of going in further for a demonstration, he leans back with a satisfied grin, as if he’s already gotten everything he wants from you at that moment. He grabs a pen from a nearby table and takes your hand, writing his phone number on your palm. “Find me when you feel like it gets to be too much, when all those emotions make you feel as if you’re absolutely about to burst.”

#klaus mikaelson #klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson imagine #the originals #joseph morgan #klaus mikaelson fan fiction #klaus mikaelson fanfic #the vampire diaries #vampires #new orleans #nola #art #painting

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demonicbaby666 · 4 months

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Remember Me

One Shot | Criminal Minds Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Jennifer Jareau x fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, brief smut

Words: 2.9k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, cheating, fingering, oral sex, brief mention of blood, loss

Summary: JJ has lived her whole life pleasing everyone, even if it was at the cost of her own happiness. But one day, she stumbles upon an unexpected opportunity to stray away from her norm, have a conversation, a relationship away from everything and everyone she knows. Why wouldn't she take it?

A/n: I'm sorry in advance. That's all I can say, really.

JJ fits the mould. She always has and always will.

When she was younger, she played well with other children, smiled as she let girls braid her hair, and wept when the boys tugged at them. She listened when her parents told her it was just how young boys showed interest and that she should be flattered. Though she didn’t quite understand, the little girl managed to take it on the chin and try her hardest to focus on the compliment of having her scalp ache. That was until one boy, who showed ‘interest’ in her regularly, had yanked her poorly done braid for the third time in ten minutes. The whole ordeal ended with JJ towering over him as he fell back onto his butt and cried ugly, bulging tears.

She cried in the car the whole way back home when her mom came to pick her up from daycare, shouting at her for acting so brutish. ‘You think any of the boys will like you now?’ That’s what her mom had said, but JJ didn’t care; she had her friends who took care of her, made her laugh and would only ever get feisty when it was time to share a toy.

“Even the girls will be scared to play with you.”

She never did anything like that again.

When she was in high school, she was the ‘it’ girl. Her grades were stellar, alongside her love life, as she took on the duty of dating the soon-to-be prom king. She was the perfect girlfriend, never mind that there was always an excuse not to let him get her naked when they were alone. Usually, it was that she wasn’t ready; she didn’t tell him that behind closed doors, she got in enough practice with her best friend, but that’s all it was. Practice. It wasn’t that she got butterflies when soft lips kissed along her neck rather than the gruff of unbalmed lips or when manicured nails showed her how it felt to have her collarbones traced rather than calloused fingers fumbling with her bra strap. Practice.

She married a bland man with a thick accent and a proclivity to make sarcastic comments, and together, they had two kids, forming the perfect nuclear family. How perfect, and entirely not macabrely mundane. She should have been happy and content. What she had was the dream, the societal one at least, that her younger self would have gushed at. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she could hear her little voice say, see the innocent smile on that unknowing face that was forced to gush at having her pigtails yanked and feel pride in her youthful stance. It made her stomach lurch.

Then, one day, she’s sat on a park bench, crying. She can’t remember why, only feels the anguish crack in her chest and force another stream of tears down her swollen cheeks. Vaguely, she registers she’s not alone, hears the dull creek of aged wood and tries to simmer her sobs to sniffles. When that doesn’t work, the blonde is forced to turn her stiff neck and face the embarrassment of being caught crying in public head-on. Maybe tell this stranger to pick another bench, to mind their business, anything that would get them away. Seriously, there were at least two free benches, and she couldn’t fathom why anyone would approach her in this state when there were very clearly other options.

As the dismissing words touch her lips, they fade away, eyes batting to try and halt the swarm of tears in their tracks. Soft. JJ notices that you’re soft. All she’s known her life is rough, sharp, brittle edges, from the itchy feel of a beard scratching at her chin to the unpleasurable rutting of a man inside her, finishing in twenty seconds. But your hands are not callused when they lay upon the skin of her upper arm, and your smile is not unsure as you gaze into her azure eyes. JJ doesn’t understand why her stomach is flipping, but she suddenly feels okay. She doesn’t hate herself for it. Not like how she hates herself for everything she feels.

“Are you okay?” you ask, light and open, and she hears your voice's unmistakable melody of genuine care.

The confessions are spilling out like water from a faucet, and before JJ is even aware, she’s run through her whole life and has mapped out every wrong decision that’s led her to a life of service. She realises things about herself she’d have never seen had it not been for your impartial presence and attentive nods.

You do your best to weigh in, encourage personal discoveries and meet them with reassurances and words of affirmation. You watch as this gorgeous, kind and intelligent woman unravels right before your very eyes and see the moment everything clicks. You click. You’re an outsider to the normalcy she has to display daily, and you’re not witness to the constant acts she performs to appease her husband, colleagues, and even her children. You’re a taste of what it's like to be able to simply exist away from expectations and scrutiny.

She places her hand over the one you have on her arm, brings it down to rest in her lap and traces lines over the creases of your palm. There’s something about how you look at her; it makes her feel young again. She doesn’t care about anything anymore, wants to follow her heart rather than her brain, and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel guilty about it.

That’s how it starts. Every week, JJ finds herself drawn to that bench, drawn to you. You talk, and she forgets; she forgets about everything except what it is to be herself without bounds. It truly is a beautiful sight. She’s utterly, undeniably and inextricably beautiful.

You smile so brightly, from cheek to cheek, as you watch her laugh, watch life come back to her with each little confession she gives away. Like when she was younger, she vaguely remembers making her Barbies kiss, or in high school, her boyfriend's only redeeming quality was his long hair that he'd let her maintain or that only a few weeks ago she had to clear her search history after deep diving into, well that one she never finishes, but from the crimson hue that appears over JJ’s cheeks you’re able to put two and two together. The story of a new colleague joining the team rattles you the most.

JJ speaks of how she often found herself transfixed, admiring her mannerisms, her wardrobe, and how her brown eyes shone in a particular light. She tells you how sometimes, even now, when she catches the brunette's eye, her heart still leaps a little, but it’s emptier and accompanied by the bitter taste of regret. There’s a sadness when the blonde lets that confession slip, like a piece of her breaks every time she talks of it, reliving the same moments over and over, and you manage to push aside your jealousy in favour of offering her a reassuring smile and comforting embrace.

Weeks turned to months, and soon, JJ found herself staring at you in much the same way she had her junior high best friend. She knows the feeling but resents the accompanying guilt that only worsens with joining your lips together and later looking her husband in the eye. Her whole life, she’s done the right thing, followed the rules, did as she was told, and ever since meeting you, she’s realised all it had amounted to was endless longing. In a fucked way, she thinks of you as her saviour, a chance to see that her deeper desires should have always been fuel enough to turn a blind eye to so-called duty.

Of course, you’ve come years too late when she’s forged bonds that, in her eyes, will always be unbreakable. It helps to think that way; it hurts less when she takes your hand and leads you into a hotel suite booked under a pseudonym. You smile nonetheless the whole walk through the corridor, ignoring how there’s an odd smell in the air, how the carpet is sticky and stained, and how, between clasped hands, you feel the presence and prick of JJ’s wedding ring.

She needs this, and you want to be everything she needs, everything she feels, and everything she wants you to be.

And you are. And you are more.

You show her what it is to be devoured, to kiss slowly and languidly, to have sex without it feeling like a race, to be filled roughly and want it, crave it. She makes sweet sounds as you trail your lips down her body, seal them over her clit and lap at the tender bundle of nerves, never once looking away from who’s granting her this immense pleasure. By the time she’s cumming for the second time, she’s no longer chanting your name but words of gratitude, two single tears rolling down each cheek as she allows herself to feel the aftershocks of her orgasm before the euphoria dwindles.

It doesn't take long for the blonde to recover, and when she does, she’s leaning over you, an eager look in her eyes shadowed by a hint of uncertainty. She’d never done this before, never been with a woman. Sure, she’d thought about it, seen it, but it had always felt impossible. Yet here you lie beneath her, smiling, waiting, and looking so fucking perfect she knows if she doesn’t get to touch you, she’ll never forgive herself. That thought alone has her hand working its way between your legs, delving between folds to coat her fingers in your arousal before she pushes two inside you.

Again, she doesn’t look away. She can’t.

She watches the veins in your neck strain as you throw your head back, watches your stomach roll with every thrust of her fingers, watches as your lips part and your jaw shakes and can’t stop herself from kissing you when she hears you moan. She can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but she knows, she just knows. Knows that when she curls her fingers, you’ll whimper; when her thumb brushes over your clit you’ll gasp; and when she sucks a mark to your breast, you’ll cum.

She whispers more confessions into the night after, and you feel a little like an intruder until she nestles against your side and presses soft kisses to your shoulder before she lays her head down on it and runs her fingers through your hair. She can’t stay; you both know it, but don’t say it. Instead, you dress each other between tender touches.

It’s the same hotel the next time and the time after that, every time. You’re used to the stale smell in the corridor and have even contributed to the array of stains. It was after you and JJ had indulged a little too much at a local bar and discovered, in the right company, that the blonde was rather handsy with wine sloshing around in her brain. That night, you both sobered up rather quickly; rushed touches turned slow, harsh kisses turned light and for the first time in both your lives, you made love.

She insists on paying for dinner when you go out, and you temporarily forget that she has a family waiting for her at home; take in the new way she’s curled her hair and done her makeup. Her smile stretches so wide it’s a painful reminder that no one’s paid enough attention to her to mention these things, and you vow that for however long you get with her, you’ll be the one to notice these things, make her realise she deserved to have the little things pointed out and praised.

Once the bill’s paid, JJ suggests a stroll, and you agree because it’s not outside the norm to walk to the hotel, paper trail and all. But as the blonde takes the lead, gently guiding you forward, you realise you’re walking to another familiar staple in your and JJ’s story. She’s first to sit down on the park bench, and you don’t hesitate to join, tucking your body into her side to ward away the slight chill of the evening breeze.

“Cold?” JJ asks, a little confused, what with it being July. Still, she wraps an arm around you and pulls you perfectly closer, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.

“A little.” you smile. “Nothing to worry about, though.”

It’s quiet for a while, and both of you are content to exist beneath the glowing stars together. That’s until you hear a text alert from JJ’s phone that could only be from one person. You’re not angry as you pull away from JJ’s warmth, allowing her to reply to her husband in peace, though you can’t deny that a sudden hollowness fills your chest.

“Do you forget about me too?” JJ whips her head up and shoots you a look of confusion. “When you’re with him, do you forget about me?”

She places her phone down, and there’s a small victory in discovering you come first, at this moment at least. Soft hands land over your cheeks, and JJ pulls you into a slow kiss filled with so much devotion it leaves you dizzy. You pour just as much into the kiss as you’re being given until you’re both too desperate for breath that you’re forced to pull away. You don’t stray far, meeting JJ in the middle as you lean your foreheads together and feel each other's breaths steady.

“How could I forget you when you're all I think about?” JJ whispers, pecking your lips before she continues, “I miss you. When you’re not beside me, I miss you.”

It’s what you needed to hear - reassuring enough to put your thoughts aside and allow JJ to kiss you again, to guide you to the place you ended most nights together, and to undress you. This time, JJ asks for no pleasure on her own and demands only yours. She doesn’t let you touch her, not until she’s had you cum over her fingers thrice already, has her head between your legs and her tongue inside you. Only then does she guide your hand to her hair, feeling bad for the crumpled bedsheets she’s sure you’ll rip anytime soon, allowing you to push her further into your sex. She laps hungrily like she’s starving for air, and you’re the promise of full lungs until you’re blissfully fucked out and spent, pushing her away and begging for breath.

When JJ crawls back up the bed, the pride clear as your slick on her face, she pulls you half on top of her and holds you tighter than she ever has before.

“Please, don’t forget about me,” you mutter over her heart, squeezing your eyes shut.

On the walk home, you grind your SIM card into the tarmac pavement till it’s unrecognisable. You walk past the park, past yours and JJ’s bench and let yourself cry ugly tears before smashing your phone against the ground and allowing the glass to cut your hands.

It’s easier to do knowing you won’t face the consequences for long. You know she’ll find someone who’ll love her just as much as you do, and the thought fucking stings more than the physical pain you’re in.

You think to yourself that JJ was probably too caught up in what she wanted you to be for her that she never really and truly saw you. She never saw the paling of your skin, noticed how it became easier to mark you or looked away from your kind eyes to the bags beneath them. But in a weird way, you’re okay with it, because you got to be what JJ needed you to be. And maybe that was your purpose. Perhaps that’s why you didn't go straight home months ago after you’d received the test results from the hospital; instead, you walked to a nearby park. Maybe all along, your last months weren’t meant to be yours to live; instead, they belonged to someone else, and lord knows, JJ got more use out of them than you ever could.

It’s a nice thought to drift off to, even if the monitor next to you beeps a little too loud, a little too slow, you tell yourself you were something to someone. You were, you are someone she won’t ever forget.

—

She’s crying again, in the same park, on the same bench, except you’re not there this time. Her hands are bare of jewellery, and she wants to be happy about it, but you’re not here. Her eyes search the barren benches, and she's repeatedly calling out your name till her throat is raw and blistered. JJ doesn’t know whether she’s cursing you or calling to you; she only knows that this is freeing, that each time your name leaves her lips, it feels like reopening a flesh wound. She keeps going till her lips are chapped, till she cold starts to raise goosebumps over her arms, until the setting sun glints off something in the corner of her eye. She looks to her side, catches a metal plaque on the head of the bench she’s never seen before and traces her fingers over the familiar letters until everything starts to make more and less sense.

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astroboots · 1 year

Text

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #10

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel tries to rob a superhero and you try to stop him.

Word count: 5,750

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

It’s another mundane morning in your office. You’re hiding away in your cubicle with your breakfast croissant and coffee, scrolling the news on your phone.

Ever since the cosmic murder attempts have started, reading news hasn't been the same for you. It’s no longer a case of innocently keeping up to date with current events. Because now you can’t read the sensationalist headlines without a small pang of guilt that you may have been the unwilling root cause for so many of them.

‘Apocalyptic blizzard in August.’

‘Stampede escape from Brooklyn zoo.’

‘Freak electric storm causes wide city blackout’.

It’s all just too macabre for you this early, it’s not even 10am. Your eyes flicker down, only skimming to make sure that there has been no casualties involved with each incident before scrolling away again. Then you opt for the technology section instead. Hoping it is a little bit less catastrophic and kinder on your nerves.

‘Tony Stark’s Arc Reactor Returns Home to Stark Tower.’

Your fingers pause at the headline. Stark always makes for a good read and good gossip, you think to yourself as you take another sip from your morning coffee and start to read:

‘Tony Stark, the notorious billionaire philanthropist and avid Star Wars memorabilia collector, has announced his decision to move his iconic arc reactor back to his home in New York City. The self-sustaining fusion power source kept Stark alive during the infamous hostage incident where he was captured and detained in Afghanistan by the Ten Rings terrorist organization’.

‘Self-sustaining fusion power source…’ you repeat the phrase in your head, parsing over the words. Why does that sound so familiar to you?

You read it again, and this time instead of your own voice, the memory of Miguel’s sleep husked voice fills your ears:

“Your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed.”

Adrenaline buzzes bright in your brain, and you stand up from your desk so fast you nearly knock over your chair.

Finally! It’s the Eureka moment you have been waiting for all this time.

You peer over the cubicle wall, scanning the room for Miguel. It doesn’t take you long at all to spot him; his oversized frame is hard to miss. Besides, even if you couldn’t see him, you’d be able to sense the anger vibrating off of him a mile away.

In the corner at the far end of the open-plan office, Miguel is abusing the poor printer again. He’s cramming a fistful of papers into the feeding slot like it’s a duck he’s trying to force feed to make foie gras, and judging from the vein straining on his forehead, the man is about two seconds from lifting the 50 pound machine and launching it out through one of the building’s windows.

You shake your head at the scene. You don't understand how someone so smart, so intelligent, so apt with technology—he built an A.I. so advanced it would make the most high tech of Stark Industry's prototypes look like a kindergartener's chicken scrawl—can be so inept when it comes to dealing with a basic printer.

“Miguel,” you whisper loudly, and despite the fact that he’s on the other side of a bustling office, he immediately turns to look at you.

You beckon him over, practically bouncing with excitement as you wait for him to cross the room, and as soon as he’s within reach, you stand on the tip of your toes and cup a hand around his ear so you can covertly whisper the news of your discovery.

“Stark has an arc reactor.”

You’re beaming with pride that you’ve found a solution to your dilemma, and look up at Miguel expectantly for him to celebrate with you and maybe even praise you.

Instead, he looks down at you without reaction. “What’s Stark?”

"Wait, are you serious?"

You almost think he’s doing one of his sarcastic comedic bits with you, but the angle of his right eyebrow, raised in cluelessness tells you otherwise.

"How do you know so much about Dr. Strange, but not know who Tony Stark is? He’s like the main Avenger."

Miguel merely shrugs at you. "Avengers aren't really a thing where I'm from."

You shove your phone into his hand and watch as his eyes flicker over the screen, reading through the article in a matter of a few seconds. When he’s done, he places the phone back on your desk, then grabs your left hand, leaning down as he lifts it up towards him. For a second you think he’s about to kiss your hand.

"Lyla," Miguel announces, and the watch buzzes warmly against your wrist as Lyla's hologram reforms in the small space above.

"Give me the layout of the Stark Tower, identify vulnerabilities in the security system and outline the most optimal entrance points for a break-in."

Did he just say break-in?

"Wait, wait,” you interrupt quickly, trying to defuse the situation, before he gets too far ahead of himself. “Miguel, we are NOT breaking into the Stark Tower."

"How else would we do it?"

“We could just talk to him. Lyla can hack into his schedule and book us a meeting with him, right?”

“And then what?”

“We’d ask him to help us?” you suggest, not understanding why he skipped straight over the most obvious answer and went right to breaking and entering. Though from the way Miguel is staring at you in blank confusion you may as well have spontaneously grown horns on your head.

“...Nicely,” you add, in case that wasn’t already clear.

“Because that would require us to talk to him. He would just say no, Cielito. I’d prefer to break in. Cleaner that way. More efficient. Easier.”

You can’t believe this man just admitted to being so socially awkward he thinks committing a felony is easier than having to hold a conversation with a stranger.

"Asking is pointless. No scientist is just going to hand over something like an arc reactor to a couple of strangers because they asked nicely. Besides, even if we arrange a meeting with him by hacking into his calendar, he’ll know something is up the moment he sees us. You’ll just wind up getting thrown out by security.”

Ok maybe he has a point there.

"What if we tricked him? Made him think we have something he wants?”

"Like what?"

"Stark collects rare Star Wars collectibles. We can lie and say we're collectors with a rare piece to sell like the Kenner Star Wars Boba Fett prototype?"

His right brow raises at a skeptical angle and he’s staring at you like you’re speaking a foreign language.

"Cielo, that's insane."

You bristle at that.

"How is your idea any better?" you demand.

"A break-in wouldn't require much effort or rely on the goodwill or stupidity of someone else. It’s much easier–"

“You’re talking about breaking into the personal home of an Avenger!” you interrupt because you’re not listening to any more of his madness, “He’s arguably the smartest member of a team made up of the mightiest heroes on Earth, and you want to try to steal from him, Miguel!? That is not easier!”

The office has gone alarmingly quiet around you. You look around to see that your heated discussion is gaining unwarranted attention from the rest of the office. All of a sudden, the endless click and clack of the keyboards stop.

You give your curious coworkers a strained smile, then lean up close to Miguel again, muttering under your breath. “We’ll discuss this when we get home.”

Miguel doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel his eyes pinned to your back as you walk to your chair and sit back down at your desk to finish your croissant in two mouthfuls, chugging down the remainder of your coffee.

An hour before noon, Miguel comes to your cubicle. He sets down a lunchbox and from the logo on the plastic grocery bag you can tell that it’s from your favorite Bodega round the corner.

“I have a quick errand to run for work at lunch. I’ll be back within the hour,” Miguel tells you, “Lyla will guard you, and if something happens she’ll alert me immediately. Don’t go anywhere.”

You look up from your screen to see him stand over your desk with that passive expression etched onto his stoic face, as if there is nothing out of the ordinary.

In the last month, Miguel hasn’t let you out of his sight for longer than a handful of minutes (primarily to get more snacks when they run out).

Miguel thinks he’s being so slick. It’s insulting to your intelligence that he thinks you don’t know what he is up to: he’s obviously going to spend his lunch hour trying to rob Tony Stark.

But that’s fine, you’re not going to openly question Miguel on his suspicious behavior. If he’s not here that means you are free to get up to whatever you want.

… Including approaching a certain multibillionaire that has the one item in his possession that could save both your life and the universe as you know it from collapsing.

It’s why you wave at him as he makes his way to the exit and pay close attention to him leaving through the front glass door and take the elevator down to the ground floor. Then for good measure you wait another five minutes to make sure that he will fully be out of hearing range with his super-senses before you raise your wrist to your face.

“Lyla,” you whisper.

“Hello, boss girl! Wasssuuuup,” she greets, elongating the word sassily for comedic effect, and you can’t help but smile.

Lyla, as entertaining as she is, is an enigma to you. You don’t understand how Miguel with his short patience-span and entirely lacking sense of humor would have programmed this A.I. to have this kind of personality. Not to mention a deep archive of a millenial’s pop-culture media reference from this dimension.

“What can I do you for?” Lyla asks, shooting you gun-fingers with a cheeky flare.

You part your mouth, but hesitate to make the request.

This is illegal isn’t it? Hacking into someone’s calendar to arrange a meeting with them under false pretenses. God, what if you get taken away in handcuffs within the first 30 seconds of entering the building, featured on Deuxmoi as a crazy stalker fan.

So far the only “illegal” thing you’ve used Lyla for is to generate Netflix passwords and hack into HBO Max to watch Succession. This is a significant next level step.

Maybe you should run downstairs and catch Miguel before he leaves the building? You could plead your case again. Try to reason with him that breaking and entering isn’t the way to go about it and the two of you should approach Tony Stark by having a mature and adult conversation.

Yeah. Right. You snort even as you think it. Miguel is never going to be persuaded on this point and you are quickly running out of time. There’s only one thing to do:

“Lyla, can you please arrange a lunchtime meeting for me with Tony Stark today.”

The lobby of Stark Tower is much like any other commercial buildings you’d find in the Financial District. Heck, it's not that much different from the one you navigate every morning at the Chrysler building. If anything, the only surprise is how ordinary the Stark Tower is.

When you enter the main lobby, you have to sign in with a stern but clearly bored security guard, then use the guest security pass you’re given in order to access the elevators.

Once you reach the 90th floor, there is a distinct lack of staff up there. Only a single, sweet-looking old man, with a well trimmed mustache above his upper lip. He's swathed in a soft-knitted cardigan and wearing gigantic vintage-styled sunglasses indoors that make him appear bug-eyed as he peers up at you and walks with you to another set of elevators using a retinal scan for security and sends you on your way.

The door closes around you in the metal box, with a swift jump to the 91st floor.

When the door finally slides open it feels like you’ve entered another world. Minimalistic opulence is the keyword for it. There are windows along the entire space. A 360 view of the New York landscape and you almost feel like you are at an Aquarium with the amount of glass surrounding you. There’s pieces of half-built tech and prototypes everywhere. Imagine having so much money that you can allocate a whole floor of a manhattan skyscraper to essentially be your garage workshop.

“So you’re my 1pm that magically appeared today,” a happy-go-lucky voice sings out.

You jump in your skin, breaking your concentration from the view, as you turn around to see the infamous man of the hour standing behind you.

“Gotta say, when I was envisioning the sort of person who might be selling me a Kenner Star Boba Fett figure, I did not imagine a gorgeous knock-out,” he says, with an outstretched hand as he greets you.

Tony Stark is shorter in real life. Less formal than in the gettymarked photos you’ve seen of him at red carpet events and fancy galas, dressed up in the most tailored fit suits that money can possibly buy. He’s also a lot more charming than in photos. All big brown eyes, and pouty lips. He might be half the size of Miguel, but Tony Stark has more than enough charm and confidence to make up for it

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

He is quick witted banter and dazzling diamond smiles as he shows you the residential suite of the Stark Tower. His hand rests on the side of your waist as he guides you through the long hall, making strong eye contact all the while down the hall. 91 floors up and you cannot hear a hint of the chaotic traffic noise downstairs, it’s oddly quiet save for the faint scratching noises you hear from the ceiling. (Guess even Stark towers cannot escape the city’s rodent issues).

“Anyone ever told you, your eyes really sparkle?” Stark says, as his hand slips from your shoulder to rest at the small of your back. “You’ve got this whole Disney princess thing going on. I dig it.”

Wait, is he flirting with you?

Tony Stark, Chief Executive Officer of Stark Industries. One of the top 20 richest men in America (according to Forbes). A man who can afford to buy the whole of planet Mars is flirting with you.

God, you are already seeing dollar signs. Lobster. Caviar. All the rare exotic and poisonous puffer fish sushi you've only dreamed of eating. You've always wanted to be a gold digger, you've just never been close enough to a gold mine.

Maybe this will be easier than you thought. If he likes you, maybe you can just flirt your way into getting the arc reactor. Ask him to lend it to you.

The two of you make your way past the glass doors and into another imposing large room, bare and minimalistic. Oddly, it feels dimly lit, given the size of the windows in the room.

It’s the size of the front lobby of your office building, and you realize halfway through that this room serves no other purpose except to store more of his junk. There are half built machines piled up in every corner. Boxes and boxes of tools haphazardly strewn across the room. It’s an outrageous waste of prime New York real estate that speaks to the man’s wealth.

In the middle of the room, there’s a silver medal that glows an eerie blue in the middle, encased in a display case. With the way it sparkles, you could almost mistake it for a precious aquamarine gemstone the size of your fist.

“Wow, is that the arc reactor?” you ask.

Stark doesn’t answer. Suddenly his chattiness is nowhere to be found, and as you turn to look at him you notice he’s not paying any attention to you. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling behind you.

You whip your head around and follow his gaze to see the familiar blue super-suit trailing behind you. The unmissable angry red spider embellished across his wide chest, as he hangs upside down like a cat burglar.

Has he been trailing behind you since you got here? Was that what the noises were?

Air whizzes through the space and the force of it reverberates across your cheek. A piece of red armor flies through the air and attaches itself to Stark’s arm.

You’ve seen enough highlight reels of Iron Man on the news channel to know what it means.

“Wait wait wait,” you shout out as you step in front of Stark in mid-transformation.

You fling your hands up high in a gesture of a white flag to de-escalate the situation. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

Stark’s eyebrow quirks up, tipping his head sardonically. "So your costumed sidekick hasn't been stalking us this entire time? Breaking and entering, not just into my tower–which is private property, by the way–but also bypassing security to access my private office? Yeah, I'm sure your intentions are entirely on the level."

Despite the sarcastic hostility in his tone Stark hasn’t summoned the rest of the armor. The rest of his iron suit is suspended in the air on standby two feet away. He’s only got the arm piece strapped to his arm as insurance and is clearly willing to give you at least a few seconds of a benefit of a doubt. Long enough to hopefully explain yourself and not start a Superhero brawl.

“He’s not dangerous,” you say, and the moment you say it, you want to kick yourself because of how suspicious that makes you sound.

You turn your head around to Miguel who’s done an aerial somersault with the grace of a ballerina despite his build and soundlessly landed back onto his feet on the ground.

“I can’t believe you went behind my back! We agreed to put a pin in this and wait to deal with Stark until we agreed on a plan. You said you weren’t going to break in!”

His masked eyes narrow into accusing slits, “Yeah? And what are you doing here then?”

“Stopping you before you do something stupid!” you hiss.

Before Miguel has a chance to retort, there is a loud clap from behind you that redirects both your attentions to Stark.

“Jarvis, how did our lovely Disney princess make it onto my calendar and how did Hulk Spiderman over here manage to slip past every layer of your security net?”

The voice of a posh British man sounds out across the room but there’s no person attached to it.

“I can find no record of these events in my logs. Performing internal diagnostics now, Sir.”

“Huh, interesting…” Tony hums to himself in consideration before he turns his attention back to you both.

“I have to say I'm quite impressed, but I’m hoping for an explanation. Is this a Bonny and Clyde situation? You two lovebirds here to rob me?”

“No!” you both shout in unison.

“Not lovebirds, got it.”

“That’s not–” Miguel starts, whipping down his head in your direction.

At the sight of your face, he seems too flustered to continue his train of thought and he quickly looks away from you. “None of your business,” he snaps at Stark.

You don’t know why, but that dismissive glance from him hurts. Like the very idea that you two would be in a romantic relationship is off-putting to him. It’s kind of insulting. You turn from him, trying to ignore the sharp stabbing ache somewhere in your chest that makes it hard to breathe.

From across, Stark observes the two of you, whatever he sees makes him tip his head in curiosity. The intense pinch between his brow relaxes and the subtle shift in his expression is like witnessing the moment a shark senses blood in the water, then he grins and turns his attention towards you.

Stark grins, turning his attention towards you. "So you're single then?"

You peer up at Miguel and hesitate because that’s a damned good question. You of this dimension is certainly single, but there’s another version of you (a dead one) that’s married to the man next to you.

But that’s not you.

You turn to Stark, "Yes," you answer.

Miguel whips his head to you, eyes wide. "No!" he bellows.

"The lady says she is, big blue."

"And I say she's not!" Miguel growls, the last word ends on such loud volume it could break the sound barrier.

Miguel isn’t the best at reading cues. You’ve known Tony Stark for all of five minutes, and even you can tell that the man enjoys riling up people, Miguel is feeding right into that.

Stark acts like Miguel is speaking at a decibel that he is unable to register. He saunters up to you, with the most carefree gait you’ve seen anyone carry around Miguel.

"So are you free tonight?" Stark asks.

You spot Miguel’s bristling expression and hesitate for a second time.

It’s mean, you shouldn’t rile Miguel up like this. His entire back is curved up like a hissing cat. The man looks like he’s about to blow a casket, acting like a jealous spouse. And somehow under Tony Stark’s attention you feel like you are the adulterous wife.

Except once again, you’re not. Because you are not Miguel’s wife.

… Why exactly are you pining after a man still grieving his dead ex-wife who happens to look like you?

You're currently homeless. Your take-home salary as an insurance adjuster can’t afford you a new apartment in New York, not with the rising inflation and the current state of this economy. This is your highway express ticket to the charmed life of being a billionaire ex-wife.

Bye bye to 9 to 5’s and having to manually enter data into thousands of excel sheets everyday. Jeff Bezos' former wife, Mackenzie Bezos was awarded 25% of their Amazon shares valued at over 38 billion dollars. Stark is twice as rich as that.

You slide closer to Stark. "Maybe? Where are you gonna take me? Somewhere fancy?"

"Yeah, no! Absolutely not!" Miguel interjects.

He steps forward to drag you behind him, until his mountainous body blocks you from the man.

“We need the arc reactor.” Miguel announces brusquely, with no fanfare and even less by way of explanation. “If you won’t give it to us, I’ll just have to take it.”

“What do you need it for?” Stark asks curiously.

“That’s none of your business,” is the blunt reply.

Stark tilts up his head, gaze pinned to Miguel’s mask. “You know, I’m not really minded to give away proprietary technology to a man wearing a wrestling mask in broad daylight.”

There’s a stalemate between the two men as they stare each other down (or up in Stark’s case). The showdown is silent, you can practically feel the tumbleweeds rolling by, waiting to see who’s going to draw first.

“He can take his mask off,” you interject.

At your offer, Miguel’s eyes narrow, nose turning up in the air in a put off gesture, refusing to do as he’s told.

“Mig,” you warn, and despite the clear scowl etched onto the features of his mask, this time, he complies.

The blue and red fabric recedes into nothingness, until the fierce cut of his bare jawline is revealed. Eyes glowing an angry crimson.

The scowl on Miguel's face is so ferocious, you can see his fangs in clear view. But instead of scary. Instead of intimidating. He looks... almost cute. All you see in front of you is a teething puppy with no real bite. He's harmless.

Stark makes a low whistling sound at the dramatic reveal of Miguel’s face. “Didn’t expect the fifth member of One Direction under there.”

Miguel glares at the man, even though you know fully well that he doesn’t understand the pop-culture reference that’s being made.

“So let’s take this from the top,” Stark says, and he starts to pace the length of the room until he reaches the arc reactor and gives the display case a light smack like he’s tapping the rear of a mare.

“You need my arc reactor, but you won’t tell me why, and you’re not offering me anything in return, except for El Tigre over here not trying to kill me, is that about right?”

“What’s your price?” Miguel asks, voice in that low growling tone that always precedes a threat.

“I’m a multi-billionaire, cash doesn’t really interest me, and I can’t exactly have this fall into the wrong hands.”

“We’re not bad people, and we’re not going to use it for anything nefarious. I know this sounds absolutely nuts, but we need your arc reactor to save the world,” you say.

Stark chuckles at you, the way an adult would at a naive child. “That’s not really much to go on hon, you’re gonna have to give me more than that.”

“Wong, the Sorcerer Supreme, he can vouch for us.”

Stark considers you for a moment then tilts his head to take an appraising look of Miguel, eyes dragging from the sole of his suit-clad heels and up to his neck where the suit ends.

“The unstable molecule fabric you have for the suit is interesting. I’ve been meaning to give my suit an upgrade, and having it disappear into thin air would be convenient. Wouldn’t have to constantly lug around 2,000 pounds of metal everywhere I go with me. Hand me a sample of the tech along with full intellectual property rights and we’ll talk.”

“No.” Miguel says.

He straightens up his posture and crosses his arms over his chest with a haughty expression on his face. “My suit is technologically superior to all the technology you’ve got in this building combined. It’s a bum deal. Your arc reactor has palladium in it and would be poisonous for long term use. It’s practically defunct and I only need it for a one time use.”

God, this man really doesn’t know how to endear himself to anyone does he.

“He doesn’t mean that,” you step in.

“Well if it’s practically defunct, I wouldn’t want to pawn this junk off on you,” Stark responds, throwing up his hands in feigned defeat. “Besides, it has sentimental value to me. Not sure I’m willing to just give this away to some random guy who broke into my house.”

Miguel’s lip twitches in irritation until you see another flash of those fangs like they’re itching to sink into Stark’s throat.

That only seems to entertain Stark further. “Look, you clearly need this reactor for something big, and for some reason you’re not able to build it yourself even with your advanced tech on display here. You’re obviously in a hurry, and in a desperate situation. Desperate enough to break in, and you know the saying: beggar’s can’t be choosers. I wouldn’t be much of a businessman if I didn’t take advantage of that.”

Miguel narrows his eyes, glancing around at the electronic equipment stored in the corner of the room. “I need you to throw in the laser scalpel along with the 3d printer and genetic sequencer,” he says, cocking his head in its direction.

“Wow, toots, your boyfriend has real expensive taste,” Stark teases.

Your cheek warms at the term boyfriend, but you don’t correct him.

Neither does Miguel. Instead Miguel looks him squarely in the eyes and juts up his chin. “I want the Sonic disruptor too.”

“Fine,” Stark announces, holding up his hand in the gesture of a time-out to stop Miguel from listing out more expensive items. “You drive a hard bargain, Blue, but what the hell. It’s a deal. I’ll even give you a newer palladium-free model of the reactor so I can keep old sparky here for myself.”

The sun is setting against the skyline of the city, washing it in strokes of warm amber-orange hues. Miguel is still grumbling next to you as the two of you stroll along the Brooklyn bridge.

“Supergenius, Ha! Si los zombies comen cerebros, él sería invisible para ellos. What do you see in that guy anyway?! He’s not even good looking. He’s like what? 5 feet tall? He was wearing built in heels, you know! Es más corto que las mangas de un chaleco–”

"Can you pipe down?” you say, cutting off his tirade, “Just let it go, please. It's been hours! I didn’t see anything in him. I have no desire to be the next notch on Tony Stark's bedpost.”

That finally seems to end his rant, or at the very least slow it down. Miguel shuts his mouth, staring out over the river. “Then why did you tell him you were free?”

“Because I wanted the arc reactor! I figured letting the guy flirt with me might help. Catching flies with honey and all that.”

He folds his arms over his chest, with a skeptical furrow in his brows. “You wanted him to take you somewhere fancy; that’s what you said,” he points out.

Damn him and his super-genius memory.

“Well, maybe I also wanted to eat at a Michelin star restaurant one time in my life. Manila Social Club is supposed to have a golden donut made with champagne jelly and actual gold on their dessert menu.

“That doesn’t even sound tasty,” Miguel mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. His mouth settles into an unhappy frown.

“It would have been if I didn’t have to pay for it!”

“I could’ve gotten it for you,” he says, and it’s not until you take a better look at his face that you realize it’s not so much as a frown he’s sporting. It’s a pout.

Oh, is he… ? He is, isn’t he!

“You have nothing to be jealous of, you know. I’m not interested in Tony Stark,” you reassure him.

In front of you, the rigidness in his shoulder seems to melt at your words.

That surprises you. You’d have expected him to deny the accusation that he’s jealous. Adamantly object that he wasn’t, and why would he be, you’re nobody to him. Just a random stranger that happens to look like his wife that he cannot leave well enough alone.

He doesn’t do that though. Instead, his only response is a quiet, “Okay.”

His docileness takes you by surprise.

Is he admitting that he was jealous?

You'd be lying to yourself if you said that you didn't take even a morsel of enjoyment in the comical way that Miguel is getting himself riled up over you. To have him flustered and openly jealous of Tony Stark flirting with you.

As if Miguel had anything to worry about.

As if Tony Stark, a man who has ‘philandering philanthropist’ as a description for himself on his twitter bio, isn't known to be so indiscriminately flirtatious he’d eagerly court a voluptuously shaped tree.

As if that man of 5 foot 6 (with platform shoes) would ever hope to occupy every one of your thoughts the way Miguel does.

Immature and childish and inane as your behavior back at Stark Tower was—and you feel mildly ashamed of it now—you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it in the moment. Not because Tony Stark, multi-billionaire, GQ's Most Eligible Bachelor five years running, was flirting with you.

No. Because for a moment you got to experience what it was like to have your rude protective Spiderman treat you as his girlfriend. Someone he was possessive of. Someone he treasures. Someone that is his. Instead of your current reality, where you know he belongs to someone else entirely.

“If anyone has anything to be jealous of, don’t you think it should be me?” you say, the words slipping out of your mouth before you can reign them back in.

Miguel tilts his head, regarding you like a cute, confused pup, so you continue.

"Because I could never compete with her, right?"

"Her?" he asks, seeming genuinely puzzled.

"Your version of me," you say, "your Nena." You try to smile, try to keep it light-hearted, like the funny joke you had meant it to be, but it hurts even just to hear yourself say it. Because you know it's not a joke.

It's true. You’re in love with a man whose affections aren't yours to win.

Miguel stops in his tracks, and that makes you stop as well.

"It's not a competition," he says seriously. "You're two different people. You can't compare like that.”

You feel like you’re being scolded and probably rightly so. You’re being childish and unreasonably trying to compare yourself to his dead wife. But that doesn’t mean that it makes it hurt any less to hear you don’t compare at all. Your heart fissures and cracks, and the first sting of tears starts to well up behind your eyes.

"You're important to me too," he continues.

The words stop your heart, your eyes dart up to his face. The look on his face is gentle and soft, and it soothes the pain in your chest away, a gentle warmth rising to take its place.

“Oh,” you say. You can’t help but smile up at him, squinting against the bright sun behind his back.

“You’re important to me too,” you tell him.

His lips quirk up into a small but genuine smile at your response. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You nod, and then you have to turn away, feeling bashful under his attentive gaze. Embarrassed heat prickles your cheeks, and you need a second to catch your breath and let the evening breeze cool you down.

There are cyclists and pedestrians going past you as the two of you continue to walk in silence. You sneak a look at him to see that, like you, he’s turned away. He’s gazing out over the bridge as he walks and against the amber sun, you see a faint flush riding high on his cheeks.

Your fingers lightly brush against the side of his hand, and he turns back to you and smiles, sliding his pinkie to hook around yours.

You walk all the way home this way, heart feeling full, and you think to yourself that maybe, this time, things really are going to be okay after all.

~ Next issue

Author's note: So for fellow marvelheads checking, wouldn't Tony be dead after Endgame when Wong was made Supreme Sorcerer? This is another version of earth -- Thanos and the snap never happened. My baby Tony isn't dead how dare you!

The Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it’s left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰

Dedication & Credits: To @guruan for her incredibly kind help and donating her time to check the Spanish used in this chapter.

And to the kind @forwantofwill and her generosity for doing this beautiful fanart of Miguel Folding Origami that has stolen my heart!!

And finally to @thirstworldproblemss I love you and hope you're eating all the yummy sukiyaki that you deserve. Thank you for coming with me on this wild ride.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse #marvel #spiderverse fanfiction #imguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #marvel mcu

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doublekanble · 7 months

Text

heart

Alastor/reader (gnc)

romantic-platonic

word count: 5.5k

or, alastor is a man of many things, and you believed he can never love without hurting his love. tw: a small paragraph of al eating your heart.

1. “–I was right.” you coughed, the more you do, the more your voice choked on itself. Your body seized and shuddered with every beat of your heart as blood spew from the wound, already giving up on getting yourself away when you can barely breathe. He wishes he could’ve made it easier for you, but he got caught up. “you really are selfish…”

As the hand he’s holding onto quickly grew cold, Alastor hoped, for all its worth, that when he fall, however long it’ll takes, you’ll find the strength to finally accept his love for you. For now, he set his left ear over your heart, his hair stained red, Alastor listened closely for what he thought was the last time, as you and your life stops entirely.

(having done this time and time again, for the first time in a long time, he felt a longing for warmth, your warmth, the one seeping from you and dissipating with the cold air in the night.)

2. If there is ever a need to described himself, then Alastor would be the first to say that he is a man of many thing.

The charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor second to none. He’s your friendly neighbor who greets you with a smile and a caring friend. He’s the perfect son and an amiable stranger. Everything you want, he will be. Everything, except all you ever wanted from him is someone to talk to.

You’ve always a strong fascination for writing from years gone by. From the gloomy and miserable words of a poor but astute poet, riddled with nihilism and pain, to a long-gone romanticist who wrote fairy tales and chasing love he couldn’t held in his hand, or a myth, lost to time and rewritten over and over again. All the books you ever care to curated in your home is that of the classic and the dead.

Perhaps that’s why he’d grown so attached to you and the poetry you sewn into existence with clumsy words.

With his unfortunate lot in life despite his mother’s best effort –god bless that woman, Alastor would, in time, learn how to play charade better than anyone else, barely remembering the last time he bother to show care to anyone else with love and honesty rather than bemusement. He doesn’t need moth-bitten books to guide him through conversation when he can just as easily play the role of a salesman, granting you the option to pick between a piece of stale bread or the last supper. But only a salesman in the end, his words and gestures is with all the saccharine and none of the sugar.

Although he could never hope to weaves paintings with his word, ever only a mockery of one, Alastor welcome his shortcoming in strides, as long as people bought into his act. For the love he lacks in his heart, valuable you, his treasured companion, would make up for it all.

In stark contrast to his hidden callousness, you were a much more genuine person. The books and stories you gathered throughout your short-lived life give you a means to convey the feelings that made up your whole existence. In the occasion where he manage to pick the right topic, you would choose to hastily penned out your thoughts, writings border-on obsessive as you speak of vivid strokes of emotions no single word in any language can ever hope to capture. And yet, your heart, enraptured by the scenery, frantically beat so loudly in your chest as you speak of worlds end and death departed with shared poison; it would also spoke of a love so ordinary and mundane.

You’d never mourned the Danish storyteller that chased love endlessly, simple deeming it a life worth living. He wondered if you ever regretted telling him that.

(you sing praises to the odds and the out of sort while cursing at the commonplace of life, Alastor charmed the ordinary and laugh at the macabre death brings. as long as you’re there by his side, he have no need to love anything else.)

3. Just like everything else about you, your close proximity to Alastor is not the standard, and should always be seen as an exception.

That evening, you both got shooed away after a particularly early dinner, his mother’s only excuses was that you, the esteemed and beloved guest, already help with cooking, so it’s only natural you’ll get to spend the rest of the stay resting up. Even if the most you ever did was being so horrendous at chopping veggies, Alastor ended up taking over your load instead.

He laugh about it, saying that you’re pretending so you don’t have to do the work. His mother slapped him on the back of his head, while he nearly chop off his own fingers, she comforts you about your culinary skill. You smile at him when she turns her back on you both, knowing full well Alastor’s fighting his instinct to throw the first thing in his hand at you.

You two stand awkwardly on the porch and stare at the only available seat before Alastor argues that he did the most work so he should take the rocking chair. You point out how he’s practically whispering in the hope of his mother not noticing, he doesn’t bother to deny it.

After some mindless chatter, Alastor would suddenly joke about how if he were to ever read the same works as you, maybe he’ll be able to conceived a love so vicious and gentle too. You, sitting just by his feet, only gives him a sheepish smile. It wasn’t until before you’re at the front of his door, already bid his mother goodbye and ready to go back, that you would throw a remark at him.

“I think you’re a pretty vicious guy on your own,” you walk the three step down and continued through the front walk nonchalantly, hands in your coat pocket instead of linking with his like usual. “If you were to love someone, you’ll hurt them in the end. Even if you were to read all of my books.”

You stand at his gate. Although you’re waiting to see whether he’s going to go with you, you might as well have been gauging his reaction. Unconsciously, as he catches your gaze, he relaxed his grip and stride towards you like a panther to a sitting duck.

“You’re welcomed to, by the way. Just don’t dog-tag them.” Faint stinging shot through the heart of his hands from where his nails was digging into. His laugh sounds more like choking as he ignores your offer for now.

“Now, I wasn’t aware you have such a dreadful view of me, let alone thinking I can’t – what?” incredulously, Alastor barks “Love?! HAH!I supposed one of us are going to have to break that pathetic news to my mother.”

The moment he reach you, he catches a soft sigh falling from your lips, “It’s not that I think you can’t, Al.” the nickname that he imprinted on your frontal lobe sounded like nails on chalkboard, “It’s that I think you shouldn’t.”

“How delightful…”

You turned and began to walk on your own. If Alastor was anyone else, he would’ve taken this at face value and get offended at your eccentricity.

“And where, pray tell, does these impressions of yours come from?” He snatched your left arm, pulling it from its resting place and do the job himself. You give him a look, he smiles.

“I’ve been watching you.” His expression must’ve been something, enough for you to instantly stop on the sidewalk as you stammered and tries to pull your arm from him. “Not like that you deviant! I was just trying to get a read on you, since everyone kept talking about you being unattached and all.”

“Yes, yes, I know. What now, you want in on the chase? It’s ok dear, I know I’m utterly irresistible!” Refusing to let go of you, he only laugh on as you scowl. It’s well known to everyone that Alastor have been available for the longest time since anyone ever known him. It was also a well-kept mystery, the fact he have never courted a single person throughout his entire life.

“Utterly hogwash, that’s what you are.” Huffing to yourself, you finally would relent your arm to him. Your shared steps echoing across the darkening street, it’s near curfew. “I do have to say, I see what they meant, about you being a good spouse and all that,” He smiles a bit brighter at that, “But I just can’t see you being vulnerable with anyone else. You despises things not going your way, and love just have too much uncertainty!”

“Yes, yes,” he repeats, as if soothing you from a tantrum, “Weak and frail Alastor, the poor soot of New Orleans, unable to tear his ribcages open and show everyone his organs the same way his beloved whimsical friend here does every day ~.” You hiss as he settled his own weight against you with his head on your shoulder, nearly knocking the both onto the ground, “I guess you’ll just have to be with me for the rest of your life then! If you don’t, I’ll simply drown in my own piled up misery! What a life it’ll be!”

“Sure you will. Now get off and take me back home you dramatic coot.”

4. At that time, there was no need for Alastor to inquire your meaning of “vicious”.

In direct contrast to your trusting nature, you’re also perceptive and doubtful to a fault. The first slight of your tongue was a comment on how he can stop smiling around you. Always with that same gaze as you have now, lying underneath him. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he said to you that day. But it was enough for you to stood up and walked from the table with a ten-dollar bill pin under your half-finished lemon tea. The issue was quickly resolved with a phone call to your home, but he quickly learned that you don’t take kindly to – and quite frankly, refused to participate in – saccharine sweet insult.

But at what point did he stop hiding himself and let you read him freely, he thought. If he bit down on his tongue until he bleeds and shut you out like how he did to so many others who couldn’t even take one step near him, then maybe something could’ve turn out differently.

Replaying that moment over and over in his head, for the first time in his life, Alastor think about the concept of love, really think about it. It simply was an aspect of life that he never pay mind to, equating it with romance book and kissing under starry skies, and thus, utterly useless. When he think of love, all he have to go off of is his dear old mother, who sacrifices and suffers so much for him, which, in time, he pay her back with everything he have. His life was only about her and himself and the bodies under the forest floor and it was everything he wanted and more. Until one rainy day, with his eyes on the script he’s writing out for tomorrow’s broadcast, bleary-eyed and hearing the bed calling his name, he thought about you.

When he came to, he already dropped his coffee cup. The brown liquid burns, even through his slipper.

After that, Alastor would start picking out books from your carefully curated shelves, sitting in your armchair and skims through the lines while you spread across the ground like an old cat, he tried to find the feelings that you described to him in the same page you’d read a million times and over. But as he does so, he would soon find that there’s not a single word in any of those old and yellowed pages of yours that is able to captured the quickly spreading rot in his heart. In a frenzied, Alastor would burn through your small library faster than you could ever hope for.

(Alastor knows that time and time, again and again, as long as you’re willing to reach for his hand, he will never let go of yours.

at some point, he’d stop caring about whether you’re willing to at all. why would he, when the meaning of being able to love you became all he care to know at all.)

“You don’t need to love like I do, you know that, right?”

He turns to you, on your stomach, lying in your nest of blankets and pillows with a pencil in hand putting down incomprehensible charcoal shape.

“Bragging now, are we?” he gets up from the armchair and settled down by your side, eyes watching your hand while propping the book he was reading in his lap. You crank your neck and stare at him with a look, “And how are you so sure I want to love like you, dear?”

“You’ve been plowing through my books.”

He sends you a beaming smile, acting innocent while playing with your hair.

“You offered.”

“Aren’t they all the one I told you about?”

Your eyes on the book he’s holding, then the one he just placed back into the shelves. It feels like he’s back in his mother’s kitchen, with his dirty nails behind his back and a poor excuse for the missing bread on the dinner table. Except this time, there’s just you and him in your small living room, and you’re looking awfully smug about it.

Raising his hand in the air, he sigh pitifully, “Ah~, guilty as charged, darling.” and offers nothing else. The silence afterward is enough of a white flag anyway.

Pleased with what you got from him, you turn back to your work, seemingly unaware (or even worse, maybe you don’t care at all) about the gnawing in his chest and the storm raging in his head while his hand weaves through your hair.

The last time you talked to him about love, you more-or-less called him and his love hazardous. While Alastor have no trouble with accepting it from anyone else, with you, it feels as if you’re discarding a part of him to the dogs. Although his knowledge on many topics far exceeds yours, when it came to pure and genuine emotions from the heart, you’d know enough to examine him under all type of love there is, and time after time you’d deemed him impossible to ever love. And despite knowing loving and love is wholly separate, it tears him open to even considers that you’d thought of him as unable to love and be loved and something about it is just so incredibly agonizing to the point of wanting to rip you open so you can see just how unlovable you are too.

But in your living room, sitting right next to you the way no one else is allowed to. He sigh, making sure his words doesn’t come off as unpleasant as he feels.

“If I don’t have to love like you, then how do you supposed I should be doing it?”

“I’m not sure, but hopefully not at all.” You said offhandedly, but you might as well just drove a knife through his stomach, but it’s you, so he let it be, “If you can’t help yourself though, you’ll probably do something really horrible.”

“What do you supposed I’ll do?”

You turn to him, a hint of surprise in your eyes at how close he is now, but you let him be, “Undecided. But you seems like the type to let it eats you alive.”

“I’ll let my love eats me?” Laughing in disbelief, he could almost call you cute with how you nodded to yourself, resolute in your idea about him.

“You’ll let it eats you, yes.”

Alastor chuckled to himself as he tap your sketchbook twice, you hand it to him.

“Well, I’ll need to make sure that I won’t be alone, aren’t I?”

You laugh openly and said that’s true, he’s too selfish to be taken alone. Alastor couldn’t care about how much of that was just more of your usual jest and how much of it is your view of who he is. If you, who love so selflessly and readily, agrees without push back, that someone as selfish as him will doomed whoever it is that he loves so much, then who is he to deny.

At that time, the line of charcoal you put onto the paper come together to show a shadow of a small man dragging a coat by his unseen feet, a mock-up from one of the stories that you loved. Alastor stop wondering if he ever could love something like the poems and stories you’ve read a million times over, instead, he think it’s best if he loves the way you expected him to, the way he can see himself doing.

6. To be loved is to be changed.

You told him this while he stand in your kitchen, trying to shoo you back to the table so he can work without fuzzing over you. And now, while he’s holding you, so cold and so unlike you, Alastor wondered whether you would like it if your bones were to be buried in the same spot as the others.

As much as he’d love to keep it near with him, there’s not a single excuse in the whole round earth that can ever help him convinced his mother of letting him uprooted the garden out back and buried you down there, neither can he bring you with him everywhere. Alastor wants to try taking you to the morgue after he’s done, but how do you explain bringing in a set of skeleton with missing ribs? It’s simple, really.

You don’t.

He lifted you up in his arms and sat back on his sofa, your lulling head settled just below his chin, wanted to savor what’s left of you for just a bit more before rigor mortis sets in and makes you even less of what you are now. The gramophone in the corner of his room spewed utter nonsense as Alastor closes his eyes.

It’s Tuesday tomorrow, but he will have to roll up his sleeves and get to work on cleaning out one of the guest room in his hunting lodge if he doesn’t want the ants to take you first. He’ll have to call in sick, too. Alastor likes to think that when he sees you again, you’ll at least have the will to appreciate the troubles he went through for you and not complaint about being locked up inside. You and the love you have for him, akin to small river, a gentle stream, with orange and yellow leaves floating across, tucked in a forest somewhere. It widdled down the rocks and carved a path for itself. The same one that you oh so heartlessly withheld from Alastor.

You'd appreciate being bury in such a scenery, it’s a shame you won’t be, though your body would’ve made way for the prettiest flowers. But you’ll have to take what he can afford to give. To be loved is to be changed, after all.

(when, not if. having gone on for this long, he’s sure that you’re suspended in between life and death in the hell you refuses to ever believe in. half of him prayed that there’s not a river there so you can drown yourself in it just to forget all about him. the other half prayed you’ll remember nothing at all, even of the literature you love so much.

at some point, where will you stop being yourself? when you forget enough of yourself? Alastor doesn’t need to care about the semantics. he knows he’ll choose you time and again, even if you forget how you love.)

7. You take your time reading through farewell letters.

Unless the cats and dogs on the street can write, then there’s only a few, you kept a significantly smaller number of friends by your side. But it must’ve been hard to even focus with Alastor sitting right next to you.

“Darling, surely we can-“

“Please don’t make this any harder than it already was, Alastor.”

Desperately holding onto your wrist and halted your pace for just a second, he all but plead a hopeless case.

“You’re not thinking straight! Are you really just going to up and leave because someone told you so? After living your whole life here?!”

Your hand, moving like clockwork, already finished with the letters, refusing to stay in his. You pulled back from him and place the rest of the letters in a small wooden box with a deer carved on its lid. “You know it’s not just that.”

In times like these, he wonders if it was himself who have gone mad. As if the whole world is in on one big joke and you are just following along with it. Any moment now, you’ll burst into laughter and tell him that everything is a lie. You’re not moving to Washington to help a friend you know for some years with their business, and you’re not leaving him, not after everything he showed you. But you’re holding onto the letter with his mother’s name written on the front with misty eyes as if you have no other choice. So he held you by the shoulders to the point digging his nails into it and turned you to look at him.

“Then what else is there?! For Christ sakes-“ you look as if this is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do in your life, he felt as if this is the hardest battle he have to fight, “Please, mon Chéri, talk to me...”

Alastor collapse onto you, his whole weight pins you down on your small couch. Head on your chest, he listens as your heart beats just a bit faster. You let him.

“…what do you think we are, Alastor?”

Without hesitation, he reply.

“We are whatever you want us to be. Whatever it takes for you to stay.”

For someone like you, a romantic at heart, just like who he is now, that should’ve been enough for you to at least considers the possibility of forgetting about what’s right and wrong. For sure, it would’ve been enough for you to stay, if you were anyone else.

But you’re you, and he’s only himself. The romantic in you see through his act for the longest time and still fall in love with him, but just like how your love is selfless and kind, it’s also viciously rational. If you were anyone else, you would’ve ignored the rational part of yours.

“I’m sorry, Alastor.” All this time, he was desperately proving himself to you. Doing everything in his power just so you’re willing to forget your rationale and love him just as much as he loves you. “We’ll die loving each other.”

He doesn’t care if he die, Alastor wants to scream out. He’s ready to die to love you, he have been screaming out all this time. But despite all of his effort, you deemed him a love not worth chasing after till death, while he already planned the path to hell with you.

Your fingers, shaky and gentle, brush through his hair. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have to place himself bare and vulnerable like this. But if you were anyone else, he wouldn’t have love you at all. And if it’s death holding you back from loving him, then so be it.

8. For a long time now, Alastor knows you more than anyone else.

You were never a dancer, not by choice either. Its pathetic in the cutest way, how you froze up and refused to move, the way you stutters and try to pull from him only ever makes him want to bully you more. But from the way your brows draws together, to the way you’d tripped over yourself chasing after his footstep, all of it, Alastor earned from you.

From the way you stayed up overnight, to how the bottom of your shoes dragged against the pavement as you walk. From the tip of your pencil, to the bottom of your bookshelves. Every books on your shelves and every sketches. Alastor swear with all his life that no one else knows better than him when it came to you.

He knows intimately the curves you’d penned on your signatures; he knows how you’d change your mind at a moment notice about anything, he knows how you take with you small things on the side of the road that you deemed pretty enough and he knows you still have a lot you want to do here that you’ve told your lovely friend. So it’s only normal for Alastor, the person you grown to love so much, to know exactly why you refuses to even considers being by his side, and it’s just his luck that he also knows just how to write a letter with words just like yours.

So when was it that you got a friend you trusted so wholeheartedly, so faithfully, so much so, you’re your dearly cherished Alastor became a second thought in your mind? Weren’t you a romantic? Weren’t romantics idiots who can’t think straight when it come to love? So why was it that you alone refuses to let yourself love him and remained so loyal to someone you only considered a friend, someone who couldn’t even tell your lettering from his? Was it them? Who fed you lies after lies to captured you in their own hands? Was it them who taught you the telling and sign of a madman? Is that why your view of him was so horrible, you' refused to ever fathom life with him?

He knows you would’ve hated him for this, but Alastor adores you, and sometimes you just don’t know what’s best for you, even when it’s staring at you from across the front walk and following you to your home.

So if someone as rational as you can be swayed back to his lodge for just one more visit, then your friend surely can be swayed too, to come and visit you some other time, down here in your beloved New Orleans.

9. If anyone ever ask anyone else, then they will say that Alastor, beloved local radio host of New Orleans, is a man of many things. But if they were to ask you, then he’s one of the person you cherished the most, and your dearest friend.

He’s everything, the charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor that’s second to none. Alastor plays himself as your friendly neighbor who will always greets you with a smile and a clenched fist behind his back, hiding a stain just on the cuff of his sleeve in the early morning, a caring friend that offers you help just in the nick of time. Alastor is his mother’s perfect son, who spent more time comforting her about your whereabouts than to care for his own fracturing mind; an amiable stranger, gripping the newspaper detailing yet another disappearance with a bit too much force. Everything you have ever wanted him to be, he was. And yet, to his utter bewilderment and maddening grief, you refused to let him be anyone other than a friend you talked to about everything.

In the letters you saved from your beloved pen pal-turn-missing person, they would call you mature and wise. Sentimental words and kind, to his eyes, all are but hollowed gestures advising, agreeing, and offering you a place up in Washington until you can forget all about him and move on with your life, leaving Alastor to be nothing more than a nostalgic blot on the tablecloth, nothing more than yearning in early Junes. Until you forget the fact you ever love him at all, all because you decided that you couldn’t afford to let yourself be love by him.

Keeping all of it in mind, Alastor decides your dear friend should be bury far away from the comfort of your room. Three years, seven months and eleven days after your death, Alastor dragged a body into the woods. Not just any old one like usual, but not anything else too special.

It’s odd, even though you’ve been gone for the more than a year by now, it’s almost as if you’ve neve left his side. Maybe it’s the rest of you, lying peacefully in your nest of pillows and blankets, in your room that he diligently maintain. Maybe it’s your shared books he sometimes takes from his shelves and skims through in the dead of night after a hard day. Maybe it’s the locked box, sitting by his work desk welcoming him home after a night out, the same one he held in his hands, void of blood and anything else.

Or maybe it’s the reverberating sounds of heartbeat, so unlike his own. In both his waking days, in his reveries, over the sounds of the jazz band down in his favorite speakeasy and following him into the woods. Ever so silently, oh-so gently, utterly viciously in his left ear.

In any other case, Alastor finds he absolutely adores the idea of your ghost haunting him until his fell into his grave.

(you said that he should never love because he couldn’t be in control. he mourn the fact you never even let him prove you wrong. Alastor would’ve let you dance on his rotting corpse if that’s what it takes for you to let him call you his.)

10.

Somewhere in his heart, Alastor had hoped that you of all people can evade the hand of rots.

It’s a genuine shame that in the end, all of the words in the world will do nothing to stop you from sharing the lot with the others, he thought, staring down from where he straddled you with his hand peeling off layers of skins and fat. Warm fingers brushes against your hollowed cheek, before raising a small hammer and bringing down onto your bare chest. Alastor wants to preserve you for as long as possible, but to do that properly, he might as well take all of your innards out and sewn you up. It’s not that he’s not open to that idea, Alastor love every part of you. It’s just that he’s sure you’ll be extremely upset when you find out. So he’ll have to get comfortable with doing things the hard way, no matter how hard it is to do so.

With steady fingers in spite of the drumming in his ears, Alastor patiently picks out every pieces of bones he could, placing them into a small, wooden box. With a wistful smile, he closes the lid and set it aside. He miss you already.

Pushing your lungs out of the way, he dig his hands in. With blood runs up to his wrist, Alastor tries to be as gentle as he can while pulling your heart out. One hand holding onto it, another carefully cutting away everything that ties it to your body.

Distinctly, every part of you was always warm, and over time, Alastor, who’s hands are as cold as winter itself, find comfort in your touch. It was almost like you were made just for him, and him, you. And now, with your heart, cold and silent in his hand, Alastor realized what a miserable life it will be to go on living without your warmth with him from now on until he’s six feet under. But it’s ok, he’s sure of it, because above all else, what he’s been chasing after this whole time is in his hand.

For a brief moment, Alastor wondered if he were to meet you in another lifetime, one where you aren’t so complicated and so in love with the idea of living a fair life and a right love, would you have let yourself be wrong and love him. But he’s glad that your love, with all its beautiful intricacies that causes him this much pain, with a wound in it, still look as beautiful as he hoped.

Sinking his teeth into it, into you, the taste of iron and metallic flooded his mouth and drown his senses as he closed his eyes shut and nearly buckled under the taste of you. There’s not a single word in the book to describe the visceral sensations running through his blood and spreading through his every veins. Alastor shivers, the back of his head felt numb, his fever grows as he desperately takes his time and savor you. It’s a shame you can’t last forever, but he’ll take what he can get for now.

(as his teeth tears into your veins, he hears a sounds, so familiar, somewhere in the corner of his ears. it wasn’t until he caught his own heart beating that he realized that the rhythm he’s hearing isn’t his at all.

until the day you two can meet again, until then. he pray he will never forget the sounds of your heart, beating so gently.)

#alastor #hazbin hotel #x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel oneshots

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doumadono · 8 months

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sinful Sunday: Douma with a breeding Kink. He is in heat and it last for 4 weeks but he see's reader, who has marriage problem. He secretly eat Reader husband and convince reader to sleep with him for 4 weeks. After the 4 weeks he keeps reader alive snd makes reader his wife and might even turn her into a demon after birth...

SINFUL SUNDAY

Douma's keen eyes locked onto you the moment you strolled into Paradise Faith. Sure, there were plenty of girls wrapped up in his cult's allure, but you managed to snag his attention in the blink of an eye.

Douma couldn't ignore the profound sadness radiating from you, and in that very instant, he made up his mind to do whatever it took to "fix you up."

Douma orchestrated a meeting with you. The mere thought that Douma-sama desired a face-to-face meeting left you feeling honored, and you found yourself in his private chambers.

As you spilled the beans about your marital woes, Douma lounged, chin rested on his palm, savoring the drama as you animatedly gestured. As you spilled the beans about your marriage troubles and an unfaithful husband, Douma leaned back, resting his chin on his palm, thoroughly entertained by your animated gestures as you waved your hands while speaking. Little did you know, you were unwittingly serving him the information he craved.

Douma graciously allowed you to stay in his temple, instructing maids to prepare a cozy chamber for your rest.

As the night unfolded, he disappeared into the shadows, fully aware of the task at hand.

Dealing with your husband turned into a delightful game for Douma. He relished every moment as he devoured the scoundrel alive. Despite the guy being less nutritious than you could ever be, Douma savored his macabre midnight snack.

Upon his return to his chamber that night, a tingling sensation ignited within his groin. The heat, as predictable as every quarter, began to surge. Douma already knew precisely how to indulge and alleviate himself.

The next day, he enveloped you in his presence, engaging in endless conversations, assisting you in selecting materials for a new dress he generously offered to procure. Douma threw himself into mundane human activities with an intensity he wasn't aware he had. But there was a good reason for him to act that way.

Your response was impeccable; you couldn't get enough of being close to him.

It only took him a few days to convince you to share your bed with him, though for him, each moment felt like an eternity. The relentless heat was becoming unbearable, and time seemed to crawl at an agonizing pace.

Douma strolled into your chamber, a sly amusement dancing in his rainbow eyes as he found you eagerly waiting, sprawled naked on your futon. Complaints were the last thing on his mind.

Going down on you sent a thrilling shudder through him. Your intoxicating juices proved irresistible, and he couldn't resist lapping on your folds, making the most obscene noises.

Douma quickly discerned that you were incredibly tight, almost pushing the limits of accommodating his impressive girth. However, a prolonged session of eating your tiny, delicious pussy out for nearly half an hour worked its magic, allowing his lengthy cock to snugly nestle within you, embraced by the welcoming grip of your spongy, slick walls.

Douma fell in love with a classic missionary and doggy style — he relished grabbing hold of the meat of your ass to pull you back onto his cock, playfully spanking your cheeks whenever you attempted to crawl away.

"I'll breed you thoroughly, my little lotus. By the end of the night, you'll be filled with my seed," he confidently assured you, intensifying his pace as he fervently took you from behind as you laid on your side, his cock spreading your entrance painfully.

He fucked you in a myriad of positions throughout the night, leaving you not only adorned with a tapestry of bruises but also drained to the extent that moving your limbs became an impossible endeavor.

For nearly four weeks straight, Douma fucked you every night, making no exceptions. He particularly reveled in the sessions during your period — your blood tasted heavenly, and he found himself intoxicated by your flavor even more.

After pumping you full of his semen one night, he revealed the truth — you were in the arms of a demon, one of the Twelve Kizuki, following the orders of Muzan-sama, the demon king.

Initially, fear gripped you, and you hesitated to accept his words. Yet, deep down, something convinced you he wasn't spinning a tale — his avoidance of daylight, heightened activity during the night, and abstention from human food spoke volumes.

"Douma-dono," you whispered, fingers delicately tracing the lines of his jaw. "I'm not afraid. I've fallen in love. You've given me the warmth and acceptance I've craved. If you wish to feed on me, consider it my repayment for all you've offered me these past weeks, my love."

He chuckled, his long index finger gently caressing your still-slick mound from your combined releases, his cum still slowly oozing from your abused entrance. "My little, silly lotus. I won't feed on you, you're too precious to me. You're going to stay by my side forever. I want you to become a demon, just like me. And if he agrees, you will. Perhaps one day, you'll grant me an heir. That's what I desire most."

#doumadonos sinful sunday 🔥#sinful sunday #douma #douma smut #douma x reader #douma x y/n #kimetsu no yaiba douma #kny smut #demon slayer smut #kny douma #demon slayer douma #douma kny #kny x reader #kny x female reader

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lilyway · 7 months

Text

Killer After My Own Heart {Alastor x Reader} Prologue

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Death and canon-typical violence. Please be aware of these warnings going forward. This is a very dark fic that touches a lot of sensitive subjects. Please keep that in mind. Prologue | Chapter 1 |

Prologue: I’ll Find You

The day unfolded with pristine perfection, the sun casting its radiant glow over the vibrant streets of New Orleans, unmarred by even the slightest wisp of cloud. In every corner of the city, life pulsed with energy as its inhabitants prepared to embrace the challenges awaiting them. Yet, amidst the bustling activity, a chilling undercurrent of fear lingered, fueled by the persistent reports of a shadowy figure haunting the night—an enigmatic specter who stalked the streets, a relentless arbiter of justice for those whose misdeeds dared to defy the darkness.

Within this dichotomy of light and shadow, there existed a tension—a delicate balance between the vivacity of the day and the foreboding presence of the city's personal boogeyman. For the denizens of New Orleans, each step taken was accompanied by an awareness, however subtle, of the lurking threat that loomed beneath the surface—a constant reminder of the fragility of innocence in a world tainted by the whispers of the unknown.

As the sun bathed the city in its warm embrace, casting long shadows that danced across cobblestone streets, the allure of the day's brightness was juxtaposed against the haunting specter of the night—a reminder that even in the midst of life's vibrancy, darkness lurked and was waiting to find you.

There existed an individual who found solace amidst the terror that gripped the city—a solitary figure drawn to the chilling truths that lay beyond the confines of her mundane existence. For her, the relentless cycle of office paperwork and the rigors of managing her father's staff offered little respite from the monotony of daily life. It was within the eerie depths of New Orleans' dark underbelly that she found a semblance of purpose—a twisted fascination with the shadows that danced along its cobblestone streets.

To her, the city's sinister allure was more than just a passing fascination; it was a refuge from the banality of her existence—a tantalizing glimpse into a world where the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred. While her father dismissed it as the grim underbelly of New Orleans, she saw it as the missing spice that infused her horribly normal life with a sense of exhilarating uncertainty.

In the depths of her psyche, she reveled in the macabre tapestry of the city's secrets, drawn to the darkness that whispered of untold mysteries waiting to be unraveled. It was a world where the rules of ordinary life held no sway—a realm where she could shed the shackles of convention and embrace the primal instincts that lay dormant within her soul.

However, that would all have to wait until after work. There was too much on her plate for daydreaming about meeting the infamous serial killer.

(Name) served as the sole secretary to her father, Harold Wilson and the personal assistant to many of their high earners. Within the workplace, she functioned as his enforcer, tasked with the responsibility of preserving order and disciplining those who didn’t fall in line. Any individual seeking to engage with her father was compelled to navigate through her, encountering a formidable barrier that often made their lives a living hell. She was given a position of power and she would of course abuse it.

That was who (Name) Wilson was. A petite young woman, she clung to any semblance of power within her reach. Outside of her father's workplace, a realm she referred to as a little bubble, (Name) found herself powerless in the broader reality. That little bubble of her workplace was all she had and would face the world alone.

She was supposed to be happy with that and she was — to an extent.

Until Alastor reappeared two years prior, swiftly capturing her father's attention. He swiftly became the apple of her father's eye, securing a role as a radio host on an experimental channel funded by her father's hopeful investment. Within two years, Alastor ascended to become one of the most successful radio hosts in New Orleans, daresay the United States. And, it left (Name) seething in anger.

(Name) yearned to witness his downfall, eager for her family to sever ties with him once and for all. She would spare no expense to see him eliminated from their lives, reduced to a state where his impeccable charm could not salvage him. It was a moment she anticipated with fervor—the day when Alastor Broussard would be stripped of everything, compelled to rebuild his life beyond the confines of New Orleans.

That would be perfect.

With him gone, (Name) would have a perfect life.

She would be guilt-free and never have to feel that way about anyone ever again.

Unfortunately, destroying Alastor proved to be a formidable task. It appeared as though the world conspired to uphold his perfection and flawlessness. A charming man without a single chip on his shoulder. Kindness emanated from him, accompanied by a soothing smile that calmed all who encountered it. His personality commanded attention with his deep yet smooth voice. Alastor was the definition of a gentleman.

(Name) knew better.

She knew the true man under his mask of perfection. The teenager inside the man with tears going down his face as he cried himself to sleep. (Name) knew how fragile he was when it came to matters of the heart and why he was so kind to women.

It didn’t matter, that version of Alastor was long dead and gone. Buried under piles of scar tissue and blood.

Alastor, now was as bad as his crazed fans. Every woman in New Orleans was obsessed with him and his show. And, everyday was a fight to get through the door. (Name) was just here to do her job and not have to step onto twelve toes to stomp her way into the building every morning.

Just like today.

(Name) sighed as she saw the swarm of fans around the studio’s front entrance. “God damn, vultures. Can’t they sleep in for a day?” She grumbled.

(Name)'s long black hair swayed behind her as she plowed through the crowd, determined to carve a path forward. While she wasn't particularly fond of this daily ritual, it beat the alternative of encountering Alastor, who often lurked near the back entrance. With a firm resolve, she shoved aside the throng of fans, her keys clutched tightly in her hand.

As she reached the entrance, (Name) wasted no time in inserting her keys into the keyhole, her movements swift and purposeful. With a quick twist, she opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through, the sound of it slamming shut echoing behind her. In the relative calm of the building's interior, she allowed herself a moment of respite and glanced at the mob of mad vultures outside.

With a sigh of relief escaping her lips, (Name) regained her composure and straightened herself up. "Fucking crazy. Every bloody day."

"Those are inside thoughts, (Name)," Alastor remarked, his morning smile not exactly what she needed to see first thing in the morning.

He was holding two cups in his hand as he took a sip out of one, undoubtedly his personally brewed coffee. She had no desire for a cup if it was intended for her. As good as his brewed coffee was, it was made by him. Therefore, it always tasted awful.

"And I didn't ask," (Name) snapped back, her gaze fixed on the crowd.

"You're as prickly as ever," Alastor remarked, his smile never faltering as he extended the cup of coffee towards her. "It's one of your many charms."

He really didn’t ever learn. Try as he might, they would never get along and she knew he hated that she never fell for his charms.

"Alastor, go to hell," (Name) spat out, her frustration laced in her every word as she turned back to the door and unlocked it.

"That's a lovely thought, maybe I will," Alastor quipped in response, his reply falling short of her expectations. Yet, it was quintessentially him to find a retort that painted him in a favorable light.

With a swift motion, she flung the door open and began striding past Alastor. "Have fun, vultures!" She found it amusing how Alastor stood there accepting his fate.

His fans wasted no time rushing in, forming a throng around him as they clamored for attention. (Name) watched from a distance as Alastor struggled to keep up, his attempts to answer their myriad questions leaving him visibly flustered.

"(Name)!" Alastor shouted from the crowd, he was probably asking for her help. Which he would never get.

(Name) chuckled to herself as she made her way back into her office, nestled next to her father's. A daily newspaper lay waiting for her, its familiar presence a comforting sight as she picked it up. With a quick turn of the key, she unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into her own little corner of paradise.

Paperwork certainly wasn't the most thrilling task, and being the owner's daughter came with its own set of responsibilities. Despite the occasional frustrations, (Name) took pride in her role, recognizing the importance of upholding the family business. Just excuse the jabs and nonsense she pulled against Alastor. But, it did add spice to her job.

Throwing the newspaper onto her desk with a frustrated huff, (Name) accidentally hit the pile of work scattering all over the floor. "Are you fucking serious?" She grumbled, irritation evident in her voice, as she tossed her bag onto the coat rack nearby.

She truly was off to a rough start to her day. (Name) sighed heavily as she began picking up the pieces of paper and various documents scattered across the floor. Among them were proposals and ideas for their radio station to host, but to her dismay, the majority turned out to be letters mailed to them by fans who had somehow obtained their address.

(Name) carefully set aside the pile of 'worthwhile' work, ensuring it was positioned farthest away from Alastor's nonsense mail. With a determined air, she unbuttoned her coat, feeling the weight of the morning's frustrations begin to lift as she finished picking up the last few documents. With a swift motion, she slipped off her coat and tossed it over her bag, ready to tackle the tasks that awaited her.

With a wry smile, (Name) pulled the trash can closer to her chair and reached for the painfully familiar black plastic box. Seating herself, she placed the box on her lap and began sorting through the pile of letters. (Name) never bothered to read any of the letters that Alastor received. Instead, she would open them up, discard whatever contents weren't paper into the trash, then neatly place the letter back into the envelope before dropping it into the box.

(Name) would do this for every single piece of mail Alastor got. He was a famous fellow and it wouldn't be surprising for him to get some questionable things from his fans. Though, (Name) would wish they’d stop sending pictures of themselves or locks of their hair. That was a little excessive.

After sorting through about thirty letters from various unknown senders, (Name)'s concentration was interrupted by a knock on her office door. Glancing up from her busy work, she was met with the sight of a disheveled Alastor standing at her door. To her satisfaction, he lacked his usual smile this time.

"May I help you, Alastor?" (Name) greeted with a hint of fondness, as she cut open the seal on another envelope.

Alastor allowed himself into her office and closed the door behind him. "Of course, you can. (Name), what in the devil's name were you planning there?" The frustration in his voice brought a sense of satisfaction to her little stunt.

(Name) said a silent prayer, hoping that nothing strange would drop out of the envelope as she pulled out its contents. "Your vultures were waiting for you, Alastor. It was about time someone let them all in," She remarked, her attention still focused on the task at hand. Something cold hit her hand and it made her jolt slightly. It felt like metal and it was relatively small.

"(Name), look at me.” Alastor’s voice sounded the best when he was upset. How slight fluctuation tickled her ear as he slammed his hands against her table. "You're well aware of the reasons we keep them out of here.”

(Name) glanced down at the golden ring, her expression shifting to a glare as she met Alastor's gaze. "Mainly, your vultures are freaks ," She stated, her voice laced with ice, emphasizing the chasm between them. There would never be an understanding between them, not now, not ever.

"At least they have heart," Alastor retorted, undeterred, as (Name) lifted the golden ring from the palm of her hand and lifted it in front of her eyes.

"Heart? Alastor, my dear. Your vultures want to marry you," She sighed, her exasperation evident as she offered him the ring, now resting in the center of her palm.

Alastor accepted the golden ring, his gaze lingering upon it for a moment. "No, you're incorrect," He countered, a hint of amusement replacing his frustration as he realized he held the upper hand. "They want to marry you." With a swift motion, Alastor slipped the ring onto her ring finger, and to her surprise, it was a perfect fit.

"You gave them my ring size? Are you crazy !" (Name)'s voice rose in incredulity as she stared at the perfectly fitted ring adorning her hand. "How did you even get this?"

Alastor's low chuckle reverberated in the room as he made his way around her desk, his hands finding purchase on her armrests as he leaned in, effectively caging her in. "I'm not the only one with a fan club, my dear," He replied, his proximity unsettling as her mind raced with thoughts of who could have provided such intimate information.

(Name)'s hands instinctively rested on the edge of the plastic box in her lap as she looked down at the golden band encircling her finger. "A fan club? That's absurd," She retorted, her tone tinged with disbelief at the notion.

Alastor tilted (Name)'s head up, but she forcefully shoved his hand away from her. "Plenty of followers, and a plethora of names to uphold. My personal favorite among them has to be Lilith's spawn ," Alastor remarked, his voice was playful as he spoke fondly of her little fan club.

"How charming of you, I simply don't care," (Name) spat, her irritation palpable as Alastor laughed at her annoyance.

"Charming? Thank you, my dear," Alastor replied, a smirk playing on his lips as he released her from his grasp.

(Name) thrust the box into his hands with a huff. "You know I hate you, right?" She declared, her frustration evident in her tone.

Alastor placed the box on her desk. "It's always a pleasure working with you, (Name). Truly a pleasure ," Alastor stated, seemingly unfazed by her animosity as he made his way out, with (Name) following closely behind.

"Just quit already!" (Name) screamed, frustration boiling over as she took off the ring and hurled it at him.

Alastor sidestepped, skillfully avoiding her attempt to harm him. "And lose the pleasure of being your co-worker? I'd never," he retorted, his tone laced with a hint of amusement.

(Name) could hear her father's door open, his booming voice echoing through the hallway. "What's going on out here?" He inquired, his tone commanding attention.

"Nothing, Father," (Name) attempted to dismiss her father's question, hoping to avoid further scrutiny.

"Nonsense, (Name). I heard you yelling," Her father insisted, his demeanor surprisingly calm as he approached her, his towering figure casting a shadow over her.

"I don't care what you do. But, you know Al is our best moneymaker and the face of this company," Her father continued, his words making her deflate with every word that escaped his lips. "Do treat him better. There are other workers to direct your anger at."

"Of course , Father. I'll remember that for next time," (Name) replied, her voice resembling that of a mouse, subdued and acquiescent.

"Now, what happened to you, son?" Her father inquired, his gaze shifting to Alastor's disheveled appearance, concern evident in his tone.

"Some eager fans attempted a taste, sir. Luckily, they only managed to nibble on a few buttons," Alastor explained, his gaze flickering toward (Name) from behind her father, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Sweetheart, you can fix that for him before his show?" her father asked, turning his attention to (Name), his request accompanied by a hopeful tone.

(Name) bit the inside of her cheek, her fists balling in frustration as she suppressed the urge to lash out. This wasn’t worth fighting over. If her father wasn’t here, she’d kill him. How dare he embarrass her like this.

“Of course, father.” (Name) would always do what her father asked. There was no point in arguing. “Let's go, Alastor.” No matter how humiliating it would be.

For (Name), her father was all she had. He was the only person who truly understood her, flaws and all. And even if she resented it at times, she knew she would always do what he asked, if only to maintain the fragile bond they shared.

(Name) took Alastor's arm and guided him back to the storage room upstairs, confident that they would find a sewing kit of some sort. Her mother always kept one around when she assisted her father, and he wasn't the type to discard such practical items.

Casting a small glance back at Alastor, she caught sight of his gentle smile. It was a smile that she despised, one she felt she didn't deserve. A smile that seemed meant for anyone else but her. (Name) took the lead as they ascended the stairs, releasing her grip on his arm as they made their way forward.

She just wanted to fix up his shirt and be done with it. Downstairs awaited a newspaper full of juicy details about her savior. Everything he did was meticulously documented there and broadcasted on the radio. He had New Orleans by the throat and shaking with fear.

Their walk was silent, save for Alastor's consistent humming as he strolled alongside her. (Name) attempted to shove her annoyances aside as she pulled out her keys and selected the master key. With a deft hand, she unlocked the door and left it ajar for Alastor to enter. He closed the door behind him, and (Name) couldn't help but jump slightly at the sound of the door locking.

Turning around with an annoyed expression on her face, (Name) accused, "What are you planning?" She sighed and turned back around to start digging through various boxes.

"It would indeed be quite troublesome if we were discovered alone up here, wouldn't it?" Alastor remarked, his grin widening as he walked over to one of the shelves and pulled down a box.

"For you, maybe. I don’t exactly care," (Name) retorted, her tone firm as she reiterated her indifference. She had always made it clear that she didn't care, and yet sometimes she would wear the ring one of his fans had given him. She couldn't pawn it until after her shift – and she would pawn it off every shift, adding it to his bonuses.

The sound of him sifting through the box echoed through the room. "Always stuck in your ways," Alastor observed, his tone devoid of disappointment as he spoke.

(Name) didn’t respond, keeping her gaze fixed on the box on the floor as she continued to dig through its contents. She always found it odd how her father kept the majority of her mother’s belongings in the studio’s storage room. The various pictures in the box evoked a wave of nostalgia through her body.

Her mother, Margaret, had died when she was seventeen under questionable circumstances. Since then, her father had practically removed all traces of her mother from their home and moved everything here, to the storage room that always remained locked and accessible only to herself and her father.

As (Name) carefully pulled out an old picture frame and dusted it off, a family photograph emerged. Her father stood proudly with a bright smile on his face, exuding a youthful vigor that seemed to belong to another era. Margaret was captured holding onto her daughter's shoulders. In the photograph, her mother appeared radiant and beautiful, her hair perfectly groomed and her clothes devoid of wrinkles. But what struck (Name) the most was the brightest and warmest smile adorning her mother's face.

Yet, (Name) couldn't recall her mother ever smiling at her like that. Her mother seemed entirely absent from her childhood memories, lost in the depths of her own struggles. The rare days when her mother did come around, (Name) found her drowning at the bottom of a bottle, lost in a haze of despair and loneliness.

Her father had hoarded plenty of liquor before the prohibition and that was more than enough to help her mother through her issues. Issues that made her nothing more than a footnote in (Name)’s life. She wanted nothing more than to get to know her and have the parent-child relationships from the fairytales her mother once read to her.

(Name) acted swiftly, removing the picture from the frame and unbuttoning her shirt. With deft movements, she slid the picture under her bandeau brassiere, securing it safely under the strap before hurriedly buttoning up her shirt. Lost in the depths of her memories, she became completely absorbed in her thoughts, momentarily forgetting about Alastor's presence in the room.

Unbeknownst to her, Alastor hovered above, his eyes glancing up and away from her, a semblance of respect for her privacy. At this point, modesty seemed inconsequential. If he saw anything, she decided, it was his problem, and she would certainly make him regret it if he dared to use that against her.

Standing up and returning the box back into place, (Name) addressed Alastor. “I’m assuming you’ve found it?” She inquired, her tone tinged with anticipation as Alastor presented her with a small metal box, the thread spilling out from the edges.

"In fact, my dear, I did," Alastor replied, a hint of pride evident in his voice as (Name) accepted the metal box from him.

Leaning against the shelf, (Name) pulled out a spool of white thread and a needle. “Take off your shirt, unless you want me to sew this into your skin,” She commanded as she looked up at him and her expression dropped at Alastor looked beyond amused.

“If you wanted me to undress you could’ve just asked.” Alastor spoke with a smirk as (Name) narrowed her eyes.

If he were anyone else, that might have worked. But Alastor's charms never had any effect on her. Still, she couldn't deny the slight flutter in her chest, fighting down the flustered expression threatening to appear on her face. Alastor was undeniably good-looking, and any woman would feel a pang of attraction in her position.

However, (Name) didn't bother to give him the satisfaction of increasing his ego any further. “In your dreams, Alastor. I'll leave that to the vultures outside,” She retorted, her tone cool and unaffected. Fiddling through the box, she searched for similar buttons that matched the few that were left.

Alastor maintained his smirk as he observed her digging and fiddling through the contents of the box. “Always immune to my charm,”

“There was no charm to begin with.” (Name) replied flatly as she finally found the button she was looking for. “You haven't moved an inch. I suppose, I'll have to sew this into your skin.”

Alastor sighed, casting her a disapproving look. “It's inappropriate for a man to undress in front of a lady.”

“Fortunately, I don't view you as a man. Hand over your shirt,” (Name) retorted, her eyes narrowing as she walked into the far corner and took a seat, her back turned to him.

With (Name)'s back turned, Alastor began to unbutton his shirt. “As cruel as ever,” he remarked, folding his shirt over his arm before walking back over to (Name).

“You can call me anything you like,” (Name) replied curtly as Alastor took a seat next to her. (Name) snatched his shirt from him and began her work, her focus solely on the task at hand.

She really always did give him openings to tease her. “Sweetheart, Darling, Dearest, ” Alastor quipped with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

(Name) looked up at him, her expression stern as she tried to thread the needle. “ No . Absolutely not. Call me that again and you'll be sewing your own buttons.”

Alastor's laughter filled the room as he leaned back. “Never one for fun,” he remarked, his tone light despite (Name)'s clear warning.

“You couldn't handle my definition of fun,” (Name) replied, her tone firm as she felt Alastor’s shoulder touching hers. It felt odd, feeling his touch, and she absolutely hated it.

Alastor watched her weave the needle through the button holes. “Right. Your fun is your little obsession with our little boogeyman.”

“He's not just a boogeyman,” (Name) retorted, a softness creeping into her voice that only emerged when she spoke about him. “He's a kind man watching out for the people of New Orleans.”

“(Name), he kills people.” Alastor stated bluntly, his tone devoid of judgment. He didn't criticize her for her obsession; He understood it and where it came from.

(Name) glanced over at him, and that split-second distraction was all it took for her to prick her finger. “Ow. Alastor, he's much more than just a killer. He has an agenda to push. He's cleaning the filth from this city,” She asserted, her voice tinged with conviction. She didn't care if he was a killer. In her eyes, he was more than that; he was a force for justice, albeit a dark and unconventional one. She was determined to prove to everyone that he was a killer with morals, that he was doing everyone a favor by ridding the city of its filth.

Alastor watched as (Name)’s blood started to bead on the tip of her finger. “What if that's not the case?” He asked, his voice carrying a hint of concern.

“That's highly unlikely. But, in that case, I'll just give my information over to the police,” (Name) replied confidently. She knew her boogeyman was a vigilante who operated outside of the law, removing the people the police had no way of disposing of.

“And if your little investigation gets you killed?” Alastor questioned, unaware of how little she cared for her own safety.

(Name) slid her bloody finger against his cheek, leaving a faint trail of red. “Then you get to cry me a river,” She retorted, a rare smile gracing her lips. It was one of the few times Alastor ever got to see a smile on (Name)’s face. Her smiles were reserved for when she spoke of her killer and the dangers of hunting her unknown assailant's identity.

“I'm sure nothing will happen to you. You won't have to worry; there won't be any rivers of tears for you,” Alastor reassured her, his tone gentle. He didn't understand why she looked so upset when he finished his sentence.

“ Right . Of course. There wouldn't be a need for it,” (Name) replied tersely, her focus returning to her work with her bloody finger held up and away from Alastor's pristine white dress shirt. “There's no use mourning the dead. They'll never see it,” She muttered half-heartedly.

Alastor leaned against her and closed his eyes. “I'm sure there's someone who would mourn your death,” He whispered softly, his words hanging in the air as (Name) remained silent.

“If you're tired, take a nap somewhere else,” (Name) retorted, her displeasure evident in every word. Despite her irritation, she didn't move, allowing Alastor to do as he pleased.

They both ended their conversation there, with Alastor relaxing and taking some time to mentally prepare himself for his show while (Name) diligently worked to sew every button, keeping Alastor's position in mind.

(Name) had a feeling Alastor was exhausted and it made sense why. Dealing with his vultures earlier that morning was enough to tire anyone out. It didn't make her regret her actions, there was hardly anything that would make her do that.

But sometimes, (Name) would allow Alastor to rest when he needed it. He was the apple of her father's eye, the son he never had and the one he wished for. (Name) understood the importance of looking out for him and taking care of him, especially to maintain her father's favor.

However, she recognized that these thoughts were ultimately meaningless in the grand scheme of things. With a final glance at her handiwork, (Name) finished sewing the last button. Admiring her handiwork (Name) shook Alastor awake and threw the shirt over his face.

“Get up and get dressed. You're on air soon,” (Name) commanded, pushing Alastor off her as she pulled herself to her feet.

“You could've been softer,” Alastor grumbled, observing her as she collected her supplies and carefully placed them back into a box.

“No,” (Name) replied firmly as she walked back to the door and unlocked it.

(Name) glanced up at the clock, her eyes darting back to Alastor who was still buttoning up his shirt. With a sense of urgency, she jogged back to Alastor. They had only five minutes left, and Alastor still needed to do his final checks before going on air.

With a deep sigh, (Name) returned to the room and grabbed Alastor's arm. “Come on, we're live in five minutes.”

Alastor sprang into action, practically dragging her along behind him. (Name) had thought she was the one doing the dragging, but it became clear how much Alastor truly cared about his show. Despite the pressure, (Name) was astonished by how swiftly Alastor moved. She could barely keep up with his pace.

Running past various employees and down a few hallways, they arrived at Alastor's recording booth. (Name) tried to resist being dragged inside, but Alastor stumbled into his chair, immediately diving into his final checks. His shirt still wasn't fully buttoned up as he scrambled to get ready for the show and start on time.

(Name) felt her breath catch in her throat as she noticed her father narrowing his eyes. Without a second thought, she rushed to help Alastor finish up the last of his checks. They were a few minutes late, but Alastor's listeners never seemed to mind.

“This is Alastor Broussard, signing in this morning,” His sickly smooth voice filled the airwaves, brimming with gentle tenderness. It was as though he was speaking to someone genuinely special to him.

(Name) could feel her father's gaze fixed on her and Alastor. He expected her to take action, not stand there like a headless chicken. With cautious determination, (Name) took a step forward as Alastor picked up the microphone. She forced a smile onto her face as she finished buttoning up his shirt. It felt awkward, the microphone pressing against her chest.

Alastor's gaze lingered on (Name) as he continued speaking into the microphone. "I hope you're all having an eventful morning. Because mine was quite eventful," His laughter rang out, sounding so practiced to (Name)'s ears. She felt his eyes probing hers, as if seeking out the truth hidden behind her little facade.

A sense of urgency washed over (Name). She knew she couldn't linger here any longer. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave undetected. Every sound would alert his listeners to her presence, even the subtle click of her heels against the floor. She needed to slip away unnoticed, disappearing into the background before anyone noticed her absence.

“I got to meet some of you today.” Alastor motioned for her to go as he talked directly into the microphone. “It's always a pleasure to meet and connect with some of you.”

Her father's smile was warm as he glanced down at her, his eyes full of paternal pride. "Sweetheart, you and Alastor look like a fantastic match," He remarked, his voice tinged with approval. "What do you think about it? (Name) Broussard has a nice ring to it."

(Name)'s response was firm yet gentle. "I won't marry him, Father," She replied softly, her resolve unwavering.

Her father chuckled lightly, the sound echoing in the corridor. "That's unfortunate. One day, perhaps," He mused, his words carrying a hint of teasing.

(Name)'s shoulders slumped slightly at his response, a mixture of disappointment and frustration washing over her. With a nod, she acknowledged his words before excusing herself to attend to her duties. "I'll finish your paperwork and leave it on your desk for review," She stated as she turned to leave, her steps quick and purposeful as she retreated back to her office, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions.

💟

With a resounding thud, (Name) shut the door behind her and turned the lock, sealing herself away from the outside world. She sank to the floor, her frustration and resentment bubbling up inside her like a tempest. How she loathed the way Alastor's presence seemed to permeate every corner of her existence, his charm casting a shadow over her own accomplishments.

The constant adoration and influence he wielded over everyone she knew grated on her nerves, a reminder of the imbalance of power in her father's recording studio. (Name) longed for a reprieve, a day where her life wasn't dictated by Alastor and the whims of her father's studio.

In the quiet solitude of her office, (Name) took a few deep breaths, steeling herself for the challenges ahead. With determination flickering in her eyes, she rose from the floor and settled into her chair, ready to tackle the arduous workday that lay ahead. Today would be different; (Name) said that to herself every bloody day — nothing ever changed.

As (Name)'s gaze fell upon her desk, her eyes landed on the ring she had tossed at Alastor, now resting innocuously on the polished surface. With a mixture of annoyance and resignation, she snatched it up and flung it into one of the desk's cluttered drawers, burying it beneath a mound of forgotten trinkets and paperwork.

Turning her attention to the newspaper, she skimmed over the bold headline splashed across the front page.

‘Another man was found dead in the alleyway off of Main Street. The boogeyman strikes again!’

(Name)'s finger traced the bold print of the newspaper article, a faint smile touching her lips as she absorbed the words before her. "You're perfect," She murmured under her breath.

With a sigh of resignation, she returned the newspaper to her bag, tucking it away alongside the countless other artifacts of her daily life. It was time to confront the demands of her workday and the piles of paperwork ahead.

💟

The clock had struck seven, and the city's streets lay deserted as (Name) left and locked up the studio for the night. A reminder of the pervasive fear that gripped the city. The ominous shadows cast by the fading light of dusk only served to accentuate the eerie stillness that hung in the air like a heavy shroud. (Name) didn’t care, in fact she enjoyed the eeriness of it all.

She couldn’t help feeling disappointed in the citizen’s cowardice. They were all so scared of someone who wouldn’t harm them if they were decent people. If they were, they wouldn’t have to worry about him coming after them. After all, New Orleans was their boogeyman’s personal playground and they were all his toys. Which pushed (Name) to hunt him down and praise him for his every action.

As (Name) walked alone through the deserted streets, her mind wandered into the realm of dark fantasies, where the elusive figure known only as her savior prowled the shadows like a vengeful specter. In her imagination, she envisioned him as a shadowy figure, swift and merciless, his every movement a dance of death and retribution.

She relished the thought of witnessing his gruesome work, of standing amidst the chaos and carnage as he selected his unsuspecting victims with chilling precision. In her mind's eye, she saw him move with silent grace, his blade glinting in the moonlight as he closed in on his prey with calculated determination.

The thrill of anticipation coursed through her veins as she imagined the terror-stricken faces of those unfortunate enough to cross his path, their futile struggles echoing in the empty streets as they fell prey to his merciless wrath. For (Name), there was a perverse satisfaction in the thought of witnessing their final moments, of seeing the light extinguished from their eyes as they succumbed to the cold embrace of death.

With each step, her fantasies grew darker, her desires more twisted and macabre. She longed to stand at the precipice of oblivion, to revel in the chaos and brutality that defined her savior's reign of terror. In that moment, she felt a primal exhilaration, a rush of adrenaline that fueled her darkest desires and consumed her every thought.

Now, if only he would kill Alastor. That would be amazing.

Unfortunately, Alastor had already gone home hours earlier, he seemed like the type who would cower in fear at the mere mention of the city's mysterious predator. While he didn't fit all the requirements to be one of the killer's victims, he had to have some. (Name) was sure he would have a couple of overlaps with the previous victims.

Maybe, she'd go over her killer's known similarities between his victims and see how they applied to Alastor. That would be a good way to pass the time and make her day better. It made her pick up her pace as she walked back home.

Upon entering her family's manor, (Name) greeted her father with a tender kiss on the cheek, a customary display of affection. Swiftly, she navigated through the familiar halls, her footsteps echoing in the quietness of the expansive residence. As she reached her destination— her investigation room.

Dropping her bag to the floor, she gracefully threw herself onto the sofa. The room, adorned with shelves of meticulously organized files and the remnants of past investigations. The large map of the city that took up half the wall with various red strings linking one murder to the next.

(Name) retrieved the newspaper from her bag and began to methodically retrace the lines of the front-page headline. The text, a tapestry of words that hinted at the city's ongoing turmoil, drew her focus like a moth to a flame. As she immersed herself in the details, (Name)'s mind tried to place herself in his shoes.

Pulling her notebook from her bag she began scribbling whatever details that leapt out to her.

💟

Alastor approached the Wilson estate with a sense of apprehension that had become all too familiar. Each visit to this imposing mansion stirred a discomfort within him, as if the grandeur of the estate itself repelled him. Despite its vastness, the estate felt empty, devoid of the warmth and familiarity that one would expect from a home.

The sheer scale of the mansion, designed to impress with its grand architecture and sprawling grounds, only served to accentuate its soulless nature. There was something wrong with the estate and Alastor could never put his finger on it. Perhaps, how every curtain was drawn and every window remained closed.

It was never enjoyable coming here, there was always something that made his skin crawl.

There was just no heart in that home. However, this was the place (Name) called home.

(Name) was the only one worth visiting and that wasn’t out of genuine interest or affection, but solely to provoke her and revel in her exasperation. He took pleasure in witnessing her attempts to outwit him, watching her attempt to outsmart him every chance she could.

Despite her undeniable charm, (Name) was as prickly as a rose, her sharp tongue and quick temper serving as formidable defenses against potential suitors. There would be no man brave enough to court her. Which Alastor found amusing as she was getting dangerously close to becoming a spinster.

(Name) remained indifferent to the advances of others, appearing almost heartless to those who dared to come too close. She maintained a formidable barrier, a wall of concrete, between herself and the possibility of forging meaningful connections with others. Despite her undeniable allure and intelligence, (Name) seemed content to keep her distance, unwilling to let down her guard and allow others in.

Alastor attributed (Name)'s emotional detachment to her opulent but soulless home. Despite its grandeur and splendor, the mansion lacked the warmth and love that should have defined a family's dwelling. It stood as a hollow shell, a mere imitation of what a loving home should be.

Within its ornate walls, there echoed a palpable absence of genuine affection and connection. The air was heavy with a sense of emptiness, as if the very essence of familial bonds had been stripped away, leaving behind only a facade of prosperity and privilege.

But, this home only created a flower who bloomed for no one. Hidden under layers of concrete and thorns.

Maybe that was why he pitied (Name).

Perhaps, that's why he found himself here. Alastor's sense of responsibility for (Name)'s well-being compelled him to accept her father's invitation to dinner, despite knowing that (Name) herself might not appreciate his presence.

She deserved better than what she was dealt.

Forcing a smile to mask his discomfort, Alastor pressed the doorbell and patiently waited for someone to let him in. After a short wait, Harold swung the door wide, his jovial demeanor filling the threshold. A servant lingered in the background, her presence almost ghostly as she continued her task of sweeping the floor.

“Alastor, my boy! Always a pleasure to have you,” Harold boomed, his arm encircling Alastor's shoulders in a gesture of familiarity.

Alastor couldn't help but feel a sense of unease as he stepped into the opulent interior. The dim candle light was the only light in the area as the temperature visibly dropped.

The ostentatious furnishings and intricate wallpaper told him all he needed to know about how deep Harold’s pockets went. It was an utter waste of money. Alastor saw his reflection from the large mirrors that Harold loved to have around. He looked miserable.

“Sir, it's always a pleasure stepping by.” Alastor replied, his smile masking his inner reservations as Harold guided him towards the dining hall.

“You're always welcome, son.” Harold smiled as he walked around without batting an eye at the servants who cowarded in his presence.

“I'm glad to hear that.” Alastor echoed, though his words carried a hint of skepticism. If (Name) wasn’t his daughter, he would stay far away from this estate.

The emptiness of the house was unmistakable, despite the presence of a few servants Alastor passed by on his way to the dining hall. Even with Harold bustling about, the grandeur of the estate seemed to amplify the sense of vacancy, as if the walls themselves were longing for companionship.

Harold's relentless chatter was a constant drain on Alastor's patience. It seemed that Harold possessed an insatiable need to keep Alastor engaged, to ensure his presence lingered in the grand estate. Alastor couldn't help but wonder about the extent to which Harold would go to keep him tethered to this place.

As they entered the grand dining hall, Alastor couldn't help but notice the lavish spread laid out on the table. It was a feast fit for royalty and there was no one sitting at the table.

"Are we the only ones having dinner, sir?" Alastor inquired, his eyes scanning the empty chairs. (Name)'s usual presence, engrossed in a newspaper or notebook, was noticeably absent.

Harold sighed, an air of resignation in his voice. "(Name) will be joining us."

Alastor raised an eyebrow. "Where is she? We can't start dinner without her." It was a statement rather than a question, expressing his disapproval of the thought proceeding without (Name).

Alastor could feel his eye twitch, did Harold really think he would have dinner with him alone? Absolutely not . Of course, (Name) would be his safety net. He was an odd man and a strange father. He allowed his daughter to do whatever she pleased and never questioned it.

“In her usual place, her room of horrors.” Harold didn't seem too happy, but he was rather supportive of (Name)'s strange hobbies. “I swear, she'll grow out of her phase, son.”

Alastor nodded, understanding Harold's hopes. "I can fetch her and escort her downstairs," he offered, already moving towards (Name)'s quarters.

"That would be lovely," Harold agreed, his relief evident in his tone as Alastor took the initiative to bring (Name) to dinner.

(Name)'s Room of Horrors was what her father called her investigation room. She had spent the last two years meticulously hunting down her beloved boogeyman, desperate to unmask him and help him with his reign of terror.

It was a rather chilling idea for a normal person, but Alastor wasn't a normal person by any means. He found it rather amusing to see (Name) untangle his murders, piece by piece, and be wrong every time.

But, her dedication to hunting him down was admirable. She had no idea just how close her beloved killer was to her.

Alastor grinned as he saw the door was wide open and let himself inside. The room itself was a cacophony of clippings, notes, and strings connecting various points on the map. It was her lair, her Room of Horrors, as her father liked to call it. The place where (Name)'s obsession unfolded, and Alastor often found himself as a peculiar subject of her investigations.

(Name) stood before the large-scale map of the city, her hair pulled back into a messy bun and thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. It was a familiar sight for Alastor, one that revealed the true essence of (Name) Wilson. In this room, amidst the organized chaos of her investigation, she was unapologetically herself. The map, adorned with pins and strings connecting various locations and (Name) stood in front of it.

(Name) meticulously pinned today's newspaper article about the latest victim to the board, her movements deliberate and focused. With each pin, she anchored the grim details of the crime to the sprawling map of the city before her. The victim's face stared back at her from the newspaper and she didn’t seem the slightest disturbed. As she affixed the article in place, (Name)'s fingers traced the lines of her notes, a web of observations and deductions that danced across the surface of the board.

With practiced precision, she attached a red string to her notes, its vibrant hue standing out against the backdrop of the map. The string served as a visual marker, connecting disparate pieces of evidence and drawing attention to crucial details that might otherwise be overlooked.

Alastor stood quietly at the threshold, taking in the scene before him. (Name)'s room, though sparse in its furnishings, was rich with the weight of her obsession. There was a large bookshelf and a sofa, and plenty of tables. But, there wasn’t much else in the large room.

On the tables lay an array of evidence, each item a piece of the puzzle that had consumed (Name)'s thoughts and fueled her determination. Forgotten by the police or deemed inconsequential, always found sanctuary in this room, where they awaited her scrutiny and analysis.

As Alastor watched, (Name) paced the room, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts. Her mutterings were a symphony of determination and frustration, punctuated by the rhythmic cadence of her footsteps. With each circuit of the room, she chewed on her nails as she lost herself in her thoughts.

"(Name)," he called out, announcing his presence as he leaned casually against the doorway. She turned around, a mix of surprise and annoyance on her face. Just the expression he knew she’d make when he made his presence known.

(Name)'s head snapped toward him, her expression a mix of surprise and irritation. She stomped over, her footsteps echoing through the room. "Alastor! Who let you in here?" she shouted, her voice tinged with annoyance, as she looked up at him through her thick-framed glasses.

“I let myself in.” He joked as he raised an eyebrow at Marie's less-than-enthusiastic response.

Marie didn't look impressed and he chose another avenue. "You're not thrilled about the prospect of dinner?" Marie knew what that meant and there was only one other person who was rather fond of sharing a meal with him.

(Name) sighed, a mix of frustration and resignation evident in her expression. "It's not about the dinner, Alastor. It's about the fact that you're here."

Alastor chuckled, finding amusement in her candidness. "Well, I am your father’s invited guest. You wouldn't want to be impolite, now would you?"

(Name) winced at the tone of his voice. "Oh, that's just great," she muttered under her breath, her irritation evident.

Alastor couldn't resist a chuckle, his demeanor light despite her obvious annoyance. "Well, it's always a pleasure being here," He remarked with a hint of amusement, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"And it's always a pleasure to not have you here," (Name) shot back sharply, her tone laced with sarcasm as she pushed Alastor out and firmly closed the door behind her.

Alastor's curiosity always got the better of him, especially when it came to (Name)'s relentless pursuit of her mysterious boogeyman. "Are you any closer to finding your elusive boogeyman?" He asked, leaning slightly to catch a glimpse inside her investigation room.

(Name)'s determination shone through her response, her smile radiant with confidence. "Not yet, but I'll find him," she declared resolutely. There was a spark in her eyes that Alastor found both intriguing and unsettling. What was it about the thought of a murderer that lit her up like a beacon? "But first, dinner. So, you can get out of here," (Name) added, as she ushered him away from the door.

“Always so cruel, (Name).” Alastor teased as he followed her down the hallway.

(Name) shrugged as she walked beside him. “Me? Cruel, I could never.” Her voice faked, sounding offended and Alastor couldn't help but grin.

“You are the cruelest flower in New Orleans, my dear.” Alastor remembered, but (Name) didn't mind.

“Shut up and have dinner with my father. I want you gone after.” (Name) always loved ordering him around. That one was a given, he didn't want to stay in that estate overnight.

He just needed to survive another dinner with Harold. Then, he'd be free from this hellish estate for a short time. Alastor always kept coming back for (Name).

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