Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ah… the air was thick with the scent of cheap cologne, overcooked ambition, and the faint, effervescent sigh of champagne. Beneath the lazy flicker of golden lights and murmuring voices, my gaze followed a line more intoxicating than any drink in this room… her.

She moved so nonchalantly, like silk falling from a biteable shoulder. My, my. That glass… her fingers, long and pale like moonlight filtered through lace curtains, danced with it. Caressante, the French would say. A loving touch, innocent perhaps, but so achingly intimate when she did it. Her thumb brushed the stem and I bit down softly on the inside of my cheek. How delicate she looked… how dangerous.

My eyes tried to behave, they managed. But my mind… oh, mon dieu, the mind is a wicked conductor. I imagined her fingers again, pas sur le verre, but curled around a throat, or was it mine? No, last night’s little guest, poor Mr. Landry. He gasped beautifully. Didn’t flail too much either. I do appreciate a man with dignity, even if I have to strip it from him rib by rib.

But she? No, not fleeting. Not like them. She wouldn’t be another name scratched into the walls of my memory. At least, not for tonight.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, curling like smoke. My routine wrote itself. The looks, the whispers, the coy little approaches as if they were the ones doing the hunting. Sweet delusion. I watched it play out over and over again, a stage I built with bare hands and brighter lies. I let them think they had choice. A magician always does.

I chuckled into my fist, the sound soft and conspiratorial. My lashes fluttered non, pas maintenant. I didn’t want to blink, not when she still hovered in my vision like a promise half-whispered.

She whispered too. To her friend, lips barely parting. Probably mouthing the shape of my name without knowing it. It thrilled me. Une timide, perhaps? A bashful one always bloomed the most beautifully beneath my hand. Those breathless stutters, the red creeping up their cheeks, oh it painted such a divine picture every damn time. Like sin in oil and velvet.

She outshone the rest. Like a candle in a graveyard. My colleagues, what a pitiful assembly. Especially the boss… ugh, the way he pandered for her attention, as if begging might disguise the scent of desperation wafting from his polyester suit. He reminded me of a jack-o-lantern left out too long, smiling but rotted through. Halloween was over, mon ami. She wouldn’t fall for a man with the sex appeal of a tax return.

Still, she stayed with the others. Let them dirty her ears with their words, let them joke and fail and grasp. They never had a chance. No, she’d come eventually. They all did. Like water to a drain. Like a body to the river.

I settled back, lit from within by the thought of her approach. Her silhouette framed against the backlight of the bar, lips perhaps still moist from the rim of the glass. I could wait. Je suis patient, quand il faut. The more they bored her, the more radiant I’d seem.

And oh, the joy of watching their faces crack as she slipped from their grasp into mine. Jealousy? It was the finest wine on the table. I’d sip it slow.

They say time stands still in moments of great clarity. But I found it stops far more often in moments like these—where desire and cruelty dance cheek to cheek beneath the sound of clinking glass and foolish laughter.

Ah, but I’m getting sentimental.

Let her play her part. I'll wait in the wings, already knowing the ending. It’s a delicious one. After all, the leading man always gets the girl. And the body count spoke for itself.

A little dove fluttered forth, light-footed, coaxed forward by softer voices behind her. A trio of hesitant gazes cowered just out of reach, pushing their chosen tribute ahead with the silent desperation of schoolgirls before the gallows. Adorable. I nearly laughed aloud, but allowed the grin to melt into something silkier, kinder.

A sip first, to set the mood. The glass met my lips with a sigh, and the taste of it was dry, forgettable… nothing next to the flavor of anticipation now standing three feet away in nervous heels. She fiddled with the hem of her dress. One of those bashful types, heart skipping like stones over a summer lake.

I offered her half an eye, let it smolder in the low light. The rest of me stayed with the rim of my glass. Let them work for the full gaze, I always said. A man mustn’t give away the whole symphony for the price of a whistle.

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle," I purred, voice low and smooth, like warm bourbon crawling through velvet. “You’re braver than your friends.”

Rouge magnifique. It crept down her neck, dipped beneath lace. My tongue pressed against the back of my teeth. Ah, to bite would be too easy.

“I—uh—I…” she stammered.

“Mmh. No need for words yet. They often get in the way.” I dipped into a slow bow, hand offered, palm up. Always palm up. Never demand, softly invite. A gasp flitted from her lips, so airy it tickled the air between us. I could already taste the tremble in her fingers.

The dance floor waited like a stage yet untouched. I led her in, one step at a time, slow as molasses dripping off a silver spoon. She followed beautifully, unaware she’d long surrendered the reins.

One-two, step-close, breath-catch—encore. She fluttered through the motions, guided not by rhythm, but by me. Her eyes lit up as I twirled her once, twice, letting her dip low and rise again on a string no one else could see. Oh, she glowed. As if she thought herself reborn under my hands.

But my eyes weren’t on her.

No—ma chérie, the one I aimed for, lounged by the bar like a secret no one deserved to keep. I caught her gaze only briefly, framed in candlelight and mockery. Her hand hovered near her lips. Laughter. But not for me.

No. For him!

That pitiful, salt-rubbed wreck of a man. Gray sleeves wrinkled with failure, beard half-shaven like a field half-plowed. Life hadn’t been kind to him, gnawed him then swallowed only to spit him back into the corner with nothing but a discount cologne and a joke barely good enough to make her smirk.

She turned from me, her laugh didn’t belong to me.

I missed a beat.

The little dove blinked up at me, puzzled. I twirled her once more, only a bit forceful now. A clean pivot, calculated. She gasped again, not with delight this time, but with breathlessness. Good. She should remember this spin, would be her final one tonight.

“Darling,” I murmured, leaning close, lips nearly grazing the shell of her ear, “you move like a dream dipped in honey. But my drink’s gone lukewarm, and I fear my coworkers may be mourning my absence.”

A flush, stronger now. No woman knew how to digest both praise and dismissal at once. It always left a taste. She’d crave sweetness later and wonder where it had gone.

I bowed low once more. Kissed her hand. She had cool skin, soft knuckles and a trembling pulse. And I just left her there, breathless.

Back to the bar. One stride. Two. Three. Glass. Gulp. Burn.

My eyes locked on her once more. Still smiling. Still next to him… ah... ma chère. Why him?

A storm gathered behind my teeth. Who was he, anyway?

Some back-alley relic perhaps, reborn through whiskey fumes and cigar ash. Wore his scruff like a badge, uneven but deliberate. Not dirt, no. Intent. Sculpted in that brutish, caveman fashion, like a man who sharpened rocks with his teeth and still managed to care where they landed. The beard—it had shape. And that annoyed me.

My face, with its lines drawn by the devil's own quill, belonged closer to hers. Against hers. Between her legs.

But approach had to wait. Another oaf, one of mine, regrettably, ambled into the scene. Laughed with her. Clapped that gorilla's shoulder like they'd survived war together. Ha! As if joy belonged anywhere near him. My smile barely cracked. Enough to notice. Enough to loathe.

The brute slipped behind the bar with the ease of a man who’d done it often. Not clumsy. His hands moved with purpose, mixed with rhythm. Confidence, but not pride. Those fingers were capable. Knuckles thick from use. Not flab, no… beneath those loose sleeves lived strength. Leaner than expected. Solid. A hunter in his own right, perhaps? And that thought stung like whiskey down the wrong pipe.

Did she like bellies? The thought tiptoed through my skull with wicked little shoes. Absurd.

My thoughts scattered like startled crows when her gaze found mine.

Finally!

A softness danced across her lips, but it wore a mask. Smiled like a painting does. It was pretty, yet lifeless. Was that for me? Before I could interpret, she moved behind the bar. Her silhouette flirted with shadows. She leaned in to whisper a secret I wanted to know.

The brute followed her gaze. His eyes met mine. Measured. Nodded, sharp. Not casual but aware. They both seemed to know something I did not.

He finished the drink at hand, no fuss, no fanfare, and began mixing another. Fluid and deliberate as two fingers summoned me forward. No hesitation in my bones as curiosity outweighed wounded pride.

My steps whispered across the floor, hips poised, smile reheated. Before my frame even settled into the barstool, she was gone. Slipped through some velvet-curtained backdoor like a puff of perfume in the wind.

Cowardly? No. Clever.

He slid the drink across with silent precision. A familiar amber hue. Exact proportions. No garnish, no frills. My lips curled. Could’ve kissed that glass in gratitude. Almost did.

The liquid kissed first. Smooth. Spiced. My kind of tongue. I chuckled into it, low and dark. A quiet thunder.

She knew who I was, knew what I liked to put on my tongue. A woman like her didn’t float through the world without catching whispers. And in this room? I was the most wanted, the most watched, the most feared. A predator among swine, a smile too wide to ignore, teeth too sharp. I didn’t ask for names when the lights dimmed, I took gasps, left marks, collected the softest pieces of them between my lips like prayers no god dared answer.

Their panties? Always caught, always tasted like sweet surrender.

And her? She properly knew that too.

She stepped into the ring, smiled through the smoke, and left before the first bell. Very smart girl, but this wasn’t over. And joy... joy trickled down my spine like a drop of blood off of my blade.

Ah… l’alcool. Liquid lullaby for the restless mind. Velvet for the veins. It draped over me like a worn opera curtain, thou one pulled far too many times, stained with stories and too many endings.

Yet despite the golden haze settling behind my eyes, despite the way my blood hummed like an old phonograph tune, the night tasted sour. Flat. Like wine left open near a window, warm and lifeless. la femme fatale du soir was gone. And with her, that broad-shouldered drink-pouring ape.

No trace or note. No lipstick smudge on a napkin, not even a lingering laugh in the air.

I am sitting alone now. A forgotten king on a tarnished throne, nursing an empty glass and the bloated ache of boredom. All that glimmer, all that promise, and yet nothing. No spark, dance or climax. Hah, how tragically dull.

And to top it all off? My dear employer, le roi sans couronne… had the audacity to look me in the eye and speak as if I were merely... staff. One among many. As though it weren’t my voice that tickled the airwaves, my grin that made lonely housewives grip their radios tighter. He provided wires. I made music.

Ungrateful swine.

My fingers drummed on the glass, thoughts sticky and slow, dragging through the recollection of her lips, her posture, the way she whispered into his ear. Her closeness to that brute! Ah, it bit into me. Scratched down my spine with something sharp and humiliating.

Why him? What did he possess?

The heat in my gut begged for violence. I imagined his face submerged in the bayou’s black belly, his last breath tangled with algae and rot. He looked like he’d put up a fight, but all things rot eventually. With the right plan, the right angle… they all sink.

But not yet. No, not while her eyes still wandered his way. Kill him now, and she might mourn him. Or worse… a shame really. My patience would need to outlast my hunger. Again.

The night peeled open before me as I stepped outside. A dull farewell from the boss, an even duller nod to colleagues. I returned the gesture, teeth perfect and gleaming, though my thoughts had long since left this corpse of a gathering.

Moonlight greeted me like an old mistress. Pale and cold, but never boring. It washed over my suit and kissed the edges of my thoughts with clarity.

She played the long game. She chose the mystery. She knew exactly who I was, and still she refused the fall… delightful.

Most women took one look at the wolf and either ran screaming or flung themselves straight into the maw. But her? She tiptoed on the edge of the woods, smiled, and left breadcrumbs.

I shivered with anticipation. Oh yes… she knew. She wanted to be hunted. And I? I was made to chase.

Ah, what a night to be alive. That breed of aliveness that curled beneath the skin, slithered along the spine, eyes dilated wide, soaking in every pulse of the city’s underbelly. I walked with no destination, only the weightless delight of hunger yet to be sated.

The streets flickered in lamplight and smog, perfume mixing with decay. A scream of jazz from a far-off club tumbled out into the gutter, ignored. Until I caught her.

Not her, no, not the elusive flame from earlier. This one was different. Wrong perfume. Taller, perhaps. Eyes too light. But the mouth? Hmm, I tilted my head. Had I had that mouth? Tasted it on a lonesome night, between ad breaks and blood? Possibly. I couldn’t recall. They started to blend after a while, didn’t they?

She stood cornered by some oaf. His voice too loud, intentions too plain. His hand braced against the wall near her face, mouth moving faster than his brain ever could. I didn’t like the way she shrunk, eyes darting around for someone—anyone—to intervene.

Ah, fate. Always so generous, opened her legs for me once again.

I floated forward, devil-may-care and jazz in my step. Draped an arm around the man’s shoulder with the grace of a well-practiced ghost and leaned in, warm breath, sharp smile. “Bonsoir, monsieur,” I purred, “do we know each other?” He twitched. Delightful. “Ah, no? What a Pity.”

I turned my head, just slightly, toward the lady. She froze, recognition blooming like daisies on corpses. Of course she knew who I was... Alastor. The radio voice that hummed lullabies to monsters and murderers. She’d heard me. They all had. Maybe while brushing her hair. Maybe with her thighs pressed tight and the lights off?

And if she had any measure of wit behind those lashes, she’d connect the dots fast. Recognize the man whose voice would echo again tomorrow through the static, detailing the brutal end of this very pest who pressed too close to her tonight.

That wouldn’t be smart. No, not at all. So, I let the urge go as I watched her lips part, offering a breathless thank-you, her gaze trembling with more than fear. She walked away, hips swaying on instinct. Not running, not quite. Just enough to say merci, and please forget I exist.

I turned my full attention to the man beneath my arm. Poor creature. He muttered half-excuses, dipped with panic, and I nodded along as though listening. No sincerity in his voice. No fear worth savoring. No music in it.

I considered ending him right there, gifting the moon a red smile across the bricks. But no. Too risky.

She’d talk. Maybe not to the police, but to herself, while tuning in tomorrow night. Ears perked, wine glass in hand, pulse rising with each familiar detail I whispered into the airwaves. No, no… let’s not stain that pleasure with premature mess.

With a dramatic sigh, I straightened his lapels. “She wasn’t worth the trouble anyway,” I said with a grin, tipping my hat. “Take care out there, mon ami.”

And off I went. Alone. Untouched. Unsatisfied.

The street welcomed me back with a chilled breeze and scattered paper. No soft skin nor the sweet song of death.

But her face… ah, that almost-forgotten one. It stuck somewhere between memory and mist. I couldn’t name her. Couldn’t place the moans or the cries she must’ve made. But I’d had her. Probably. Maybe. And tomorrow, she’d hear my voice again. That made my smile feel a bit more true.

A stone bounced once, twice, skittered off into a puddle. My toe gave it purpose, but my mind wandered elsewhere. Hands buried, shoulders dipped, coat collar high. A walk like this could turn a man philosophical, or dangerous. I always picked the second.

The streets near my place wore silence like old perfume. Faint scent of whiskey, oil, something almost metallic. That’s when the voice hit me… rough as gravel, smooth as threat. “Well, well. The Great Alastor walks alone tonight.”

I didn’t stop smiling. Wouldn’t give him that. “Marlowe,” I breathed out like a lover’s name. “Still lurking in shadows hoping someone mistakes you for a ghost?”

He stepped out of the dark with the kind of smirk that made priests curse under their breath. “You didn’t take her home,” he said. “Saw it. Watched the whole damn thing from a table near the wall. You left your poor dance partner spinning in circles, still waiting for you to come back.”

“She was lovely,” I said, voice syrupy. “Graceful ankles. Frightened fingers. But the one I wanted... well. She flew.” He whistled low. “That one? With the dark eyes and the mouth like trouble dipped in honey?” I tilted my head at that.

“She yours already?” he pressed. I made a thoughtful sound, laced with laughter. “Wouldn't you love to know.” He clicked his tongue. “You don’t even know her name, do you?”

“Oh, names are so dull at the start,” I said. “Better to learn the melody of their voice first. How it cracks when pressed... how it sighs when held.” His jaw tightened. Perfect.

“She knew who you were,” he muttered, watching me like a snake watches a rival. “Didn’t come over. Didn’t give you the time. Slipped out the back while you were busy pretending the warm-up girl mattered.” I let the silence stretch, long enough for him to feel it. “Must be getting old,” he added, eyes glinting. “Or maybe the legend’s fading. You usually collect them like moths to your flame. This one? She danced right past the fire.”

“I let her,” I said, gently. “You think I chase every skirt that sways near my flame? No, no. I let her fly. It’s more fun when they circle back on their own.” He scoffed, folding his arms. “That why you looked like hell walking out? You never leave a party early, Alastor. Not unless the game’s lost.”

I leaned in, close enough to share air. “The game’s never lost, detective. Not for me. It’s only ever delayed.” A flicker passed across his face—doubt, maybe. Or something darker.

“She knows what you are?” he asked. I smiled wider, teeth glinting. “Don’t all women?” He didn’t like that. Good. I wasn’t trying to be liked. Not by him anyway.

“She’ll end up like the others,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” I hummed. “But wouldn’t you like to know how many nights she’ll stay warm before the frost sets in?” He stepped back. Just one pace. Enough thou.

“Careful, Alastor,” he warned. “This one’s not like your usual. Something about her… off. Not soft, not easy.”

I let my voice drop, velvet-drenched. “That’s why I liked her.” Marlowe huffed and flicked the brim of his hat. “Next time you lose one, I’ll be sure to bring flowers.”

“Make sure they’re white lilies,” I said, cheerful. “For purity, you know.”

He disappeared around the corner, boots echoing with stubborn pride. I stood alone for a beat, grinning into the wind.

She flew, yes. But swans don’t disappear. They circle. They return. And when she does… I’ll be waiting. But more importantly now… why did he warn me?

What did that fox-faced bastard know? Did he really speak of her, or was it all a ploy… a pebble tossed to see which way the water rippled? Every word of his oozed smug delight, yet his eyes searching me like a map drawn in blood. He didn’t know. Couldn’t. No one did.

Still, something prickled at the base of my spine.

Me, the one whose name curled around whispers like cigarette smoke, who danced barefoot on corpses and laughed at the way flesh cooled. I’d earned the title. The killer. The one who never missed.

Yet now there were too many shoes in this dance. A man behind a bar, hands calloused but clean enough to be dangerous. A detective who scratched at my footprints with dirty fingernails and jealous eyes. And hers.

Her, with the swan-neck and the dancer’s steps. She, who looked my way and did not smile with her eyes. Who fed me to the bartender like I was a starving dog meant to bite someone else's hand. Smart and calculated and oh so delicious.

The walk burned behind my teeth. My feet paced with purpose, but it wasn’t to get home, no, it was to hold back the edges of something unhinged. It buzzed in my limbs, coiled behind my ribs, gnawed at my wrists with tiny glass teeth.

The detective once tried to end my Radio show. Hah! Can you believe that? Said it gave too many clues. Said the wrong ears might piece together the puzzle. Oh, darling, they should piece it together. That’s the game.

The chief pulled his leash tight, of course. I’d done him favors, played the smiling friend. So, the detective’s threats turned to toothless yapping, always at my ankles, never daring to bite. Still, I admired his tenacity. How he sniffed and circled. I knew his type. Some woman wanted him, and many men feared him, but both wished they could match his obsession.

He thought I was a playboy. Ha! A celebrity. A harmless charmer, lips too quick and fingers too clean to be anything but decadent.

Fools. All of them.

That aching smile curled again, twitching against my cheekbones like it wanted to leap from my face and find someone to kiss—or kill. The need to laugh nearly boiled out of me, but no, not yet. Not out here, not where eyes still lived behind curtains and keyholes.

My key turned with a gentle click. And oh, home… home knew the truth. I stepped in. Waited. Five seconds. Ten. It came out of me like music struck on piano wire.

“Hah! HA! HAHAHA!”

I spun across the floor, flinging off my shoes with a kick. My coat flared, caught in a dramatic twirl as I sang to the shadows clinging to the corners of the room.

“She FLEW! Did you see her? No, of course not, because I did. Ohhhh, and she knew, yes she did—she tasted me on the air and still didn’t bite. Fascinating!”

My fingers danced over the buttons of my shirt, slow as a lover’s tease. Fabric peeled open, inch by inch, revealing pale skin like a theater curtain drawn for the final act. I hummed a tune no choir would dare, something warped, something raw.

“You beautiful, wicked swan… clever little thing,” I breathed, leaning back, arms open, shirt hanging loose like some sultry madman's wings. “You think I’ll forget you? Hah! Oh no, no, no… I will remember every shadow your feet touched tonight.”

A pause. The ceiling watched me. The floor held its breath. I grinned into the room. “I’ll make a show out of you,” I whispered, voice dipped in honey and poison. “Soon!”

And the walls, my only audience, stayed respectfully silent as I laughed again ,louder, higher, like a string pulled too tight.

The night outside dared not interrupt… it knew better.

Chapter Text

The morning crept in like a cat with blood on its whiskers: Light-footed, smug, without apology. I welcomed it sprawled on my bed. Alone, regrettably. No warmth beside me, no perfume on my pillows, no fingerprints on my back. A shame. She would’ve looked lovely tangled in my sheets, eyes still heavy with sin and satisfaction. I might’ve brought her breakfast; something delicate, something sweet, something that might’ve distracted her long enough to miss the wolf licking its lips behind the tray.

Ah, well.

I stretched. My joints sang. The floor greeted my bare feet with that familiar creak. My robe swayed behind me as I moved through the house. The kettle whistled its own kind of praise, sharp and constant. I fed it silence, then tea leaves. Let the aroma curl into the air and nest in the corners of the kitchen. Toast followed, golden and soaked with butter. The newspaper sprawled across the table in front of me. A photograph, with me in it. "The radio-tower towered over a speakeasy instead of the airwaves," it read, as if poetry belonged in gossip. My grin twitched over the rim of my teacup. A shame they caught my good side—it would’ve been far more exciting to gift them my monstrous one.

They mentioned her. Of course they did. ‘A mystery woman,’ they called her. Poor fools. No one knows how to describe art when they stand too close to the canvas. ‘Could she hold a place in the radio host’s heart?’ the caption asked in bold. “Oh, darling,” I murmured into my cup, “you wouldn’t survive in it.”

I let them have their fantasy. Whispers and printed ink were useful tools. Far better they swoon over imagined affairs than start counting how many women disappear and reappear thoroughly satisfied after attending my shows. Or my dinners.

By midmorning, the world outside beckoned with a smile too wide. My coat swung around my shoulders like a cape. Shoes polished, cane in hand, teeth sharp enough to eat the sun; I was ready to step out.

The air hit with a crispness that only meant one thing: mischief waited somewhere nearby. And oh, how it called. The streets fluttered with life. A jazz band played something lazy a few blocks away, horns kissing the wind. Children yelled in the distance, women gossiped under shop awnings. Everything breathed.

I stood at the corner, coat caught in a lazy breeze, and grinned toward the morning. A new day. Fresh meat. New games. And perhaps, if fortune curled her fingers in my direction again… another glimpse of her. That devil wrapped in silk and restraint. I could still taste the ghost of her perfume somewhere between my ribs. I tipped my hat at a passing vendor and let my shoes lead the way, one step after another, toward whatever trouble had dressed up for me today. New Orleans... a cradle for sinners and saints alike, all squirming in their Sunday best pretending not to know the difference.

I lingered by the corner café. Croissants, confessions, and cruel intentions mixed sweetly in the morning air. Conversations slipped between hands like cards in a rigged game. All one had to do was listen—not hear. Listen. That's where the gold lies.

“She left with no one,” one woman murmured into her coffee.
“No ring. No escort. But did you see the way she looked at the bartender?”
“Oh please, he’s beneath her—no polish, no prospects. But that voice of his…”
A pause. A laugh. A clink of silver.
“…if he asked me to drown, I’d go in heels.”

I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. Their words painted enough.

She heard things. My little swan with ears sharper than razors. A woman like her doesn’t ask questions, no, she already knows the answers, plays dumb out of mercy. Or malice, or perhaps both?

She knew who I was. Knew what I drank… that wasn’t coincidence. Either she watched me long before I saw her, or someone whispered into her ear… or she was clever enough to pick pieces from shadows. Hiding a knife behind feathers. If so… delicious. And if not? Well, fantasy often dresses better than truth, and mine always wears lace. Lace I would gladly shove to the side… a familiar voice scraped across the morning.

“Well, well. Look who made it home last night. Alone, I sadly must repeat. I would’ve bet my badge you’d never walk out without someone on your arm.” The detective. Of course… leaning against a lamp post. Trench coat wrinkled, hat too low, jaw tight with the smile he tried to cage in. Foxes always smile when they smell blood that isn’t theirs. I offered him my best Sunday grin. “Detective,” I purred. “You wound me. What kind of man do you take me for?”

“One who doesn’t leave women cold on the dancefloor,” he replied with that same quiet venom. “That brunette you spun around like a record looked… disappointed. Guess you’re getting old, huh?”

“Old?” I echoed, chuckling through my teeth, tilting my head with that delicate kind of amusement one only pulls when the blade's already twisting. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, lighting a cigarette he didn’t even want. “Some of us still draw the right kind of attention”. I just watched him. “I met your little woman,” he added, exhaling slow, like the words cost him nothing. “Eyes like storms. Voice like dusk. She looked me dead in the eye when we talked, you know. Not the usual simpering or shaking. No, she stood her ground. Think she liked what she saw.”

A cruel, tiny thing. Not smug, his smile, but prideful. That smile wasn’t made for me. It was made to bury itself into the space between my ribs. My own grin stiffened behind my lips. What was that? Words designed for my throat. Slipped under my skin and curled.

He knew her name. He said nothing—but he knew. That wasn’t a guess. Not an assumption. That was a man who spoke to her. A man who got a good look. And worse… reaction. She talked to him, gave him her voice. Maybe even her smile?

Did she approach him? No. No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn't waste that first glance on anyone less deserving. Unless it was after… last night? Was it last night? She couldn’t have—! Not with him. Not right after letting me hang. Not instead of me!

His words didn’t go that far. He didn’t say it. No mention of a bed, of breathless sheets and nails scraping his back like mine still ached for. But the way he said ‘liked what she saw’... No. No! It didn’t have to mean that! It could’ve been this morning, could’ve bumped into her during his obsessive little morning patrols. Yes. That was more plausible.

More bearable plausible. But the thought coiled like barbed wire in my gut, warm and sick… her hands on his collar, mouth on his throat… I laughed. A quick, forced burst. Hollow and bright and too wide to be mistaken for anything but a warning. “Well,” I sang, voice light as a hanging corpse. “You always had a knack for dogs who don’t bark, detective. But I do hope you didn’t let that swan slip between your fingers too fast.”

He smirked, flicking ash that landed an inch from my shoe. Rude. How I longed to tear open that smug throat, unravel it like ribbon until the silence poured out.

“I don’t chase birds, Alastor. They come to me”. I nodded and tried to smile. A perfect curve of civility, the kind that belonged on a coffin lid. Inside I was already sinking my fingers into some poor soul’s ribcage. Whoever crossed my path next… oh, they would suffer beautifully. I’d coax screams so purely the Devil would dance to them. The detective dragged once more from his cigarette, slow, deliberate, watching the gears grind behind my eyes.

“Oh,” he said, casual, like tossing bones into a lion's cage. “Before I forget... she talked about you.” My smile froze, a confectionery mask locked down with pure force. “Mmhm.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Said something... interesting. About your name.” I said nothing. My teeth, however, ground softly, a sound muffled by the perfect image of civility. The detective leaned in, the scent of smoke and cheap desperation threading around me like a noose. “She called you Alastor, like it meant something more than a charming crook who talks into a microphone. You know what she said?” His voice turned slow, smooth, and gloved in mock respect, which stung worse than any insult. “She said it means ‘avenger.’ Or... ‘tormentor.’ A spirit of divine retribution.” He paused, clearly savoring the delivery. “An epithet of Zeus himself. Divine punishment in a three-piece suit,” he added, his smile crooked. “Though personally, I prefer Alastair. Defender of mankind. But I suppose that wouldn't suit you, would it?”

He watched me, waiting for the bite. I blinked once. Slowly. My jaw ached, fighting the impulse to shatter the pretense. Air tasted like rust behind my molars. She didn’t just know my moniker; she understood the bloody contract written on its vowels. Not a nickname. Not a flirtation. An understanding. And he held the bone of my myth in his hands and rubbed it raw. Knife-sharp it broke out, another strained laugh. “Isn’t that precious,” I cooed, voice sweet enough to kill a canary, hollow enough to echo. He expected a crack. I wouldn’t give him the sound of it. But inside, the pressure screamed; a raw, red itch that clawed at my throat.

How dare she give him the proof. How dare he hold it like leverage in his rat-stained teeth!

The sky shifted a shade darker behind my eyes. “Oh, detective,” I said at last, breath silk-wrapped steel. “Next time you see her…” He raised a brow. “Tell her I’m touched.” I tipped my hat and turned with a whistle on my lips—the tune sharp, playful, unholy. The kind of tune a man hums while digging a grave.

The moment he vanished into the crowd, my jaw clenched so tight I could taste the copper of my own restraint. I would find her. And him? Him I’d keep for last. That bastard will finally put one and one together like a toddler before I killed him, slowly.

The street curved under my steps, familiar stones grinding beneath polished soles. No joy in the morning now. The sunlight tasted wrong on my tongue, too clean, mocking. My rage festered, tucked behind my ribs like a blade warming in the oven.

Had she said it to sound clever? To impress him, parade some classical education about silk gloves? Or had her lips formed those truths because she felt them? Saw them? No... no cracks in my mask. I’d been careful, meticulous. I spoke in curated shadows and danced in smiling circles.

I do not make mistakes. I am not careless.

Still... why had that conversation left me with a raw, red itch I couldn’t reach? My little swan. She’d left without a word but dropped hints like a trail of broken pearls. Something about her tasted too sharp, too knowing. And now? With this detective tossing crumbs of her voice like raw meat?

What did she mean by it? Was she warning him? Was I the subject of her secret little monologue?

A slip of Marlowe’s tongue gave me something, though. A shape to chase. If she knew ancient languages, myth, name origins; then she wasn’t some slum-skulking coquette. Educated. Raised with fine books and silver spoons. Which meant her family came from wealth. Prestige. Ivory towers that bled privilege.

That narrowed it. And I—oh, I—was the darling of the city’s polished floors. The favored phantom behind velvet doors. The voice they sipped their wine to. No debutante’s gathering complete without my laughter echoing through their damned halls.

I will find her. And when I did… if she posed a threat… if she so much as breathed in the direction of truth, she would be the first woman to see what lay under my grin. Her beauty wouldn’t save her. Her clever words wouldn’t shield her. I would fold her limbs and watch the light flicker out in those eyes that dared see through me.

But maybe… maybe she didn’t want to expose me. Maybe this was a game? Her stage, my stage. Ours? A duet of teeth and silk and subtle violence.

God, I wanted to know. Wanted to pull it out of her, finger by finger, sigh by sigh. The tower sliced the skyline in crooked metal lines, clawing upward. My domain. I could almost hear it humming from here, hungrily waiting for me.

What if she didn’t say it? I stopped mid-stride, mid-thought. Could’ve been tactic. That fox liked to dress his lies in perfume and watch men choke on it. Plenty of books list the meanings… maybe he spun that little tale about her knowing—to see how deep I’d dig, how far I’d fall. A little bait, a line, a hook dressed in velvet. Clever. Predictable. Effective. A slow breath. Had I almost thrown away control over a riddle that might not even belong to her lips? Tsk. How unbecoming.

No, no. I couldn’t tear into things too soon. Not yet. The bastard gets no feast today! I won’t dance like a rabid mutt for his amusement. Not for his smug looks. I pulled my coat tighter, spine straightening. My smile slithered back into place like a blade being sheathed.

Let him think he won. Let him believe I’m pacing the floor like a lover rejected, haunted by a girl who might have spoken poetry about me to another man. Let him believe that. Because now, I had something better. I had the seed of doubt. A clever little garden I could grow in either direction¸vengeance or fascination. I didn’t have to choose yet.

I stepped forward once more, the tower drawing closer. Ah, but now it wouldn’t be the broadcast that sang alone. No. She would be listening, I’d make sure of that. I’d drop breadcrumbs with honeyed poison, paint stories in velvet and fire, wrap truths around fangs. Her ears would prick. Her heart would stutter. Her hands might even tremble? Oh, how I’d love to see that.

And if Marlowe lied? He’ll regret thinking I’d stay tame forever. Let the airwaves carry my message tonight.

The hum of wires and morning breath of old equipment. Familiar, musty, almost sacred. I passed the technician at the door, tipping my hat with a grin too wide to mean only “good morning.” She blinked once, offered a cautious smile, and vanished behind the safety of her headset. Down the hall, two interns whispered over a clipboard. I greeted them with syrupy cheer, a touch too loud for the quiet hallway. They flinched like rabbits. Made me chuckle a little.

And there—thud. The door at the far end groaned open, belching out none other than Mr. Braxton, the blessed lord of my paycheck. His coat hung wrong on his frame, like he’d borrowed a spine for the morning. Eyes narrowed, lips pressing the sort of smile men wore when they swallowed a sour truth and tried to pass it as kindness.

“Well, well, Mr. Alastor.” He stepped into my path, the aroma of cheap cigars clinging to his teeth. “You’re early.” I offered him my best confectioner’s grin. “Hard to sleep with a melody rattling in your skull, sir.” He raised a brow, scratching the side of his neck like a dog with a bad itch. “Mm. Thought maybe we could have a little chat, since you’re in such a… productive mood.”

I imagined the metal handle of my microphone stand jammed through his gullet, his voice bubbling out through torn cartilage as I whistled a tune from a cartoon jingle. His tongue flapping. A delightful image.

“Of course,” I cooed. “Lead the way.” His office stank of old ambition and cheaper whiskey. He waved me in, slumped behind his desk like a rotting toad with a chair throne. “So—about last night.” I drifted through his space with idle hands, letting my fingers trail across the spine of a forgotten book, tapping the rim of a dusty trophy no one cared to read. “A splendid gathering,” I mused. “Shame I left early. But I suppose it’s no crime to have better company waiting elsewhere.”

He scoffed, loud and forced. “Better? It just got good after you bolted. Real spark after you vanished. Guess folks loosen up without a spotlight hogging the floor.”

Ah, there it was. I didn’t stop circling, only allowed a flicker of amusement to brush my lips. “A tragedy. I must have missed quite the crescendo.” His smile soured. “That’s the thing, Alastor. Speaking of ‘attention’.” He leaned forward now, fingers steepled like a mock-priest. “Seen the paper?”

I tilted my head. “Bit of gossip. Speakeasy swans, radio charmers, whispers of this and that.” His eyes glittered with petty venom. “Would be a shame if it got out of hand. If the wrong impression stuck. You understand, don’t you? The station values your image. Your reputation.”

And there it was—the curtain pulled back. Not concern. No, not caution. Jealousy.

His fingers twitched like he wanted to wring my neck but feared my perfume might linger. He couldn’t stomach the idea of women falling into my orbit while he loitered near the punch bowl unnoticed, ignored. A wretched, wilted little man draped in brittle authority. He wanted leash and collar and reins around my throat, wanted to feel power in the one place his name held breath.

My smile never faltered. I picked up a letter opener from his desk, admired the edge, let the blade reflect the glint in my eye. “Oh, yes,” I purred. “Such attention can be… dangerous.” He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare challenge that tone. “Of course, sir,” I continued, laying the opener down with care, “I’ll be good.” The word curled with false sweetness. “Wouldn’t want to give the papers anything too juicy.”

He nodded, satisfied for the time being. But I turned to the window behind him, where the city bled light through fog. Inside my chest, the need to maim curled like a tightening spring. One day. One slip, and I’d give him a headline worth printing in blood.

“Well, now.” I stretched the syllables, sugar-sweet, and folded one hand over my chest. “About business… tell me, Mr. Braxton, do you know the bartender from last night?”

His brow lifted, unsure if the question came dipped in poison or curiosity. I offered no clues. “You know the one,” I pressed, pacing slow, hands loose behind my back. “Thick beard. A bit too polished to be authentic. Wore it like a mask, but somehow it… worked. His face carried it. Synergy, if I may be so bold.”

Braxton squinted. “You mean the fella behind the bar at the speakeasy?” I nodded once. “That’s the one.” I could see it—the flicker in his eye, hesitation thick with spite. His mouth opened, closed. Probably wondered why I bothered asking about a man.

He scratched his chin, nails rasping over flaking skin. Disgusting. That sound would haunt me later. “Yeah,” he muttered, eyes glazed. “He stayed. Quiet sort. Kept pouring drinks even after most folks slipped out”. So, he came back? He wasn’t there after I finished the drink. Braxton tilted his head. “Guys got a gift, I’ll give him that. Made some drinks with rosemary and smoke. You’d like him. Weird flair for drama”. He laughed. A wheeze, more than a sound. “Name was something like… hu—what was it?”

He stopped smirking. Leant back in his chair like a man with a match near a fuse. “Why?” he asked. “What’s it to you, Alastor? Another story for the show?” How clever he thought he was. A little jab, gloved in casualness. He held the name tight between his molars, waiting to see if I’d beg. I leaned forward slightly; grin sharpened to something that cut both ways. “Oh, Mr. Braxton…” I sang low. “Every story begins somewhere.”

Mr. Braxton shifted, something in his posture stiffened, arms no longer slouched, and spine pulled straight like a sermon was about to be delivered. His voice lowered, thickened with implication.

“You didn’t sleep with his girl, did you?”

An eyebrow twitched upward on my face, slow as the curl of a rising flame. My lips parted to respond, but the swine threw himself backward in his leather chair with a dramatic sigh, puffed cheeks quivering under the strain of moral pretense.

“Alastor, listen. For once, listen,” he huffed, rubbing his temple like my existence gave him migraines. “You can flirt, charm, whatever it is you do. I don’t care. You want to ruin your own reputation, go ahead. But don’t… don’t mess with another man’s woman. That’s how wars start. That’s how blood gets on the floor. You understand me?”

He pointed at me, fat little finger quivering like an overstuffed sausage. “It’s not classy. Not clever. And it sure as hell ain’t safe. Leave taken women alone. Please.” Please. He said please as if I were an unruly child at a dinner table, slapping at the silverware. And while he spoke I imagined cutting his stomach open with the edge of a phonograph needle. Pulling stringy organs out like wet, steaming ribbons and wrapping them around his own throat as I sang into his mouth, force-fed aria by aria. Saw his bulging eyes in a jar. A grin carved into his cheeks with the handle of my favorite knife, bone-deep and permanent.

His voice kept flapping. I blinked once. Snapped the fantasy in half. “No,” I said. Sharper than before, enough to sting. He flinched. Only slightly, but oh, what a lovely twitch.

I stepped back with practiced ease, adjusting my cufflinks as if the conversation bored me. “I didn’t need the name from you,” I said coolly. “I have better sources.”

“Alastor—” The door clapped shut behind me. Not slammed, but hard enough to speak its own language. No need to shout when wood and brass can do it for you.

Coworkers drifted nervously, some too scared to speak, others too dumb to stay silent. Perfect. The first three gave me nothing, one giggled, one blinked, one stammered about not attending the party. A waste of my grin, but I wore it anyway. Kindness with teeth. The fourth, sweet Rebecca. Hair like straw and a thin voice. I leaned on her desk, close enough to smell her floral coat. Told her she looked radiant today. That her dress brought out her kindness. That I’d be so grateful if she could help me with a little mystery.

Her blush gave her away before her lips did. “Oh, that guy? The bartender? Uh…” She tapped her chin, already folding. “Yeah, I think someone said his name’s Henry… no. Husk…” She squinted. “Oh, I forget the last name. But Husk, definitely.”

Husk. It purred in my ears. I straightened, offered her the kind of smile men are usually punished for. “Thank you, my dear. You’ve done a public service today.” And walked off, the name heavy in my mouth, tasting it as I walked out of the station.

The street met me with breathless chatter and the stench of burnt sugar from the cart vendor who never cleaned his pan. Gossip floated in the humid morning air, thick and cloying, my favorite vintage. A smile sat on my face, painted there in crimson precision. My cane tapped with rhythmic elegance against the cobblestones, drawing attention like a flame in a chapel. I leaned near a pair of women, both draped in lace and longing, their fingers curling tighter around silk purses the moment my shadow kissed their heels.

“Ladies,” I purred, smooth as sin sliding over honey. “I wonder, has either of you heard of a man who goes by the name Husk? Big, bearded, makes drinks like he’s mixing miracles?” The taller one stammered something about ‘next Saturday’ and how her father owned a vineyard and how she might be free for a dance, if I had the time. The other blushed to the roots, trying to remember if she had met a man with that name… or if I preferred brunettes, she was just on her way to her hairdresser. No help. But flattering.

Men muttered things about how Husk wasn’t a real name, probably a joke, probably some alias. One barked a laugh about “shady types always using plant names,” while another scratched at his chin and shook his head. Breadcrumbs… not even buttered.

I drifted back to the station with hands in my pockets, humming a tune that curled with irritation beneath the surface. My voice was light. My mood was not.

Behind the door: silence and wires, the scent of dust and fraying tape. I took my seat, defeated but not broken, hands folding over each other with deliberate ease.

Perhaps I should have pressed Braxton further. Unfortunately, the pig was directly tied to my livelihood, and my wallet wasn’t padded with gold. Prestige was my cloak, not my reality. Three-piece suits that fooled the eyes had been stitched with lessons taught by a loving hand.

Mother’s hands. She made rags look royal, seams into statements. She taught me how to hide poverty under pressed collars and how to rethread dignity. Once, I tried to make a suit myself. Botched the cuffs, ripped the lining. We laughed until we cried. Her laughter rang in my ears like the chime of a memory far too clean for the world it came from.

A beep. Cold, bright, mechanical. And with work came my stage. Fingers slid over switches, dials—familiar lovers kissed into life. The red light flickered above, and the glow in my eyes followed. Microphone before me. Pulse in my throat.

Leaning in I let my voice coil through the speakers like blood under a door. “Good evening, my darlings…” Velvet, wine-dark, wicked. “This is your host of hosts, your gentleman of midnight mirth, broadcasting straight from the edge of sin and static. I do hope you’re settled in, because tonight—tonight we’re peeling back the skin of this city to find the poetry writhing beneath!”

My smile widened as I spoke, tongue sharp and sweet. Words slithered, dipped, kissed the edges of every ear tuned in. Somewhere, I imagined her listening. Perhaps lying on her chaise, one leg dangling, eyes shut, letting my voice pour into her like the wine I wanted to see stain her lips. I bathed in the sound of myself. Glorious, unapologetic. Alive. My fingers danced on the controls, weaving music between syllables. All around me, the air glowed.

She would feel me. My fingers danced across the switches like they knew a waltz no one else could hear. First, the weather, dull but demanded. “A sultry kiss from the south drapes our fine city today,” I murmured into the microphone. “Humidity thick and clouds too lazy to storm. Expect sweat behind your knees and secrets under your collar, my little birds.” Click. A crisp sound. Next cue. “Now, onto our daily affair with ink and war: President Coolidge addressed Congress this morning, stiff as a corpse in Sunday wear. Something about tariffs, Europe, and the stock market teetering like a drunk debutante. Ah, the world turns, and we keep dancing.” I let the pause hang.

A crackle. The air bent around my tongue as I shifted into my own domain—the shadowed part of the program the station never questioned, too charmed or too afraid. “My, my… it’s a cruel moon hanging over us, isn’t it?” My voice slipped into its truer shape; low, saccharine, laced with something rotten beneath the sugar. “Three bodies in two weeks. Guts spilled like confessions. Our beloved city pulses with mystery, and wouldn’t you know, none of them sang before their final breath.”

Static rose, then sank like a breath held too long. “They say it’s one man. A ghost in a good suit. I say, it’s poetry. Something old, necessary. These little lambs? They walk into the wolf’s teeth with eyes wide and fingers crossed.” A pause. A smile into the mic. “And we all pretend it isn’t delicious.”

Silence throbbed in the corners. I fed off it.

But a twist now, ah yes. I licked the edge of the performance, changed gears without warning. “Anyway, my darling degenerates,” I purred, as if the last few minutes hadn't been dipped in blood. “Has anyone heard of a fine, fuzzy gentleman with a thick beard and fingers that command rosemary and gin like a priest handles prayer?” A laugh. Warm, almost true. “Word has it he works miracles behind the bar. A whisper told me his drinks dance on the tongue like sins forgiven too fast. Goes by the name Husk. Yes—Husk! An odd thing to be called, no? Like naming a rose by its thorn?” The tempo picked up. My voice brightened with lacquered charm.

“Oh, ladies… if your man knows him, do make him spill. I promise I’ll repay the favor. A drink? Perhaps… a whisper in the dark while jazz kisses your ankles?” The smile behind my words widened, unseen but felt. That slow, sinking grin like something coiling through the speaker and brushing against the lobe of every listening soul.

“If any of you fine gents or sly little sinners spot my gruff little maestro—tell him Alastor is just dying to taste what he’s mixing. Do be good and squeal, won’t you?”

I flicked the record into place. Crackling static… jazz kicked in, smooth, honeyed saxophone melting like candlewax over flesh.

Perfect plan? But of course. Who could resist the devil asking so sweetly for a drink?

The rush. The thrum in my ribs. The silence in the studio before the next voice rose to meet mine breathed like a slow jazz number. My grin never faltered, even as I rolled truths off my tongue no lawman had caught wind of yet.

“Oh, dear listeners,” I cooed, drawing vowels like ribbon through teeth, “aren’t you ever so tired of pretend halos? Of fathers with fists dipped in liquor and mothers taught to make excuses faster than they blink?”

A soft chuckle followed, one that never reached my eyes. “They call it tragedy when a man like that winds up in three neat pieces across a bridge rail. I call it symmetry.” The lines lit. No shortage of eager mouths tonight.

“Caller one,” I purred, pressing the switch. “Speak, darling. Let’s hope your voice is prettier than your thoughts.” A crackle, soft breathing—then, “Uh… hi, Mr. Alastor, sir. Long-time listener. Love your work. I was wondering, uh, is it true they found the last body with a—uh—carved letter on the chest?” I grinned like a knife.

“Oh, my. What a delicious question.” I tapped the mic, leaned closer. “Carved? Hmm. You’ve been speaking to ghosts, sweetheart. Or someone with the same appetite. But let’s keep that little curiosity between us two, hm? You and me, whispering sins under our breath.” A small gasp. A laugh from me. I hung up before he could stammer more.

Next line. A woman this time—her breath lit the wire with silk. “Alastor… do you believe love makes killers out of men?” Ah. I rolled that question over my tongue like a cherry pit. Sweet. Sharp. “Only if it’s love worth bleeding for,” I said slowly. “The right woman can make a man build kingdoms. Or burn them. And if you ask me… ashes always tell a better story.” Soft exhale on the other end. Click.

The next voice buzzed with whiskey and pride. “Hey, devilboy,” the man slurred, “gotta ask, you ever think one o’ them girls you flirt with might stick a knife in your back, huh? You talk big on air but—maybe you ain’t as sharp as you sound.” What a bitter little thing. I let a pause bloom before answering.  “Oh, my friend. I’d love for a girl to try. I’d kiss the blade as it sank. But she’d better be fast… or charming. Otherwise, I bite back.” Hung up on him too. No taste.

Between calls, my mind drifted again. No ring. No scent of possession around her. The air hadn’t clung to her like another man. That Husk creature—if he was part of her world, it wasn’t as lover. Guardian, perhaps? Roommate? A family friend? Unlikely. The way she carried herself; quiet poise, but not bowed, not someone ruled. She left alone. Walked like someone who knew the sidewalk belonged to her. Parents, yes, possibly wealthy. Education draped itself over her posture. Voice like someone who’d argued with professors and won. Oh, if she worked… it’d be somewhere genteel. Books. Music. Words. Not manual labor. I craved to know: to crack her life open like a ripe plum and taste what dripped down.

And once I found her address, her schedule, her circle, oh! The game would truly begin!  The switchboard blinked again. “Yes, caller three, speak before I wither.”

“Alastor…” A deep voice, gruff. Cigarettes and grief. “You keep talking about death like it’s art. Like it’s fine wine. How do you sleep at night?” Sleep? I smiled wider than I should’ve. “Like a baby, darling,” I said. “A baby dreaming of knives and lullabies.” And clicked the line off.

Let the jazz rise. Let the city listen. And somewhere, maybe… she did too?

The light above line four blinked in a lazy pulse. Red, unwavering. I watched it with mild interest, fingers tapping against the side of the microphone in a rhythm I didn’t recognize but liked the taste of. I would make sure to cherish the mapping of her long legs, imagined them soft and creamy beneath my touch.

Click! “Well, well…” I cooed and cleaned my throat, lips grazing the grille of the microphone. “And who might be casting their lovely voice into the dark tonight?”

A pause. “Good evening, nightly demon of the radio.” Low. Certain. Like a glove pressed against a bleeding wound. Not to stop the flow, but to feel it. No flutter in her voice, no sigh of intoxication.

At her words, something electric moved through me. My fingers began to trace idle shapes across the microphone’s stand, curling around it as though it were her throat, her legs, the pulse beneath her skin. I leaned forward, drawn by the sound, aching to bridge the static between us though the distance refused to yield. My tongue flicked across my lips, tasting the air, before my teeth softly caught the lower one, unconsciously a quiet exhale escaped into the static.

“Oh my, such a title. You flatter me, my dear. And you are…?”

“A woman who listens.” Static curled between us, but her breath was as steady as my pulse wasn’t. “May I ask,” she said, words gliding like oil over porcelain, “how it feels?”

My brow lifted. “To be what?” I hummed. “Charming? Elusive? A touch delicious?” I joked a little.

Her tone deepened, smoothed. “To talk about death with that smile in your voice. To turn blood into poetry. To be a man who knows where the body fell and still laughs like it's all part of the dance.”

I stilled.

One blink. Two. I gave a soft chuckle, slow and rich. “Ah, you’re good,” I murmured, letting the sound hum over the line. “Trying to unmask a man without so much as offering your name in return. Wicked.”

Her breath, so faint now, lingered like a dream. “Would it disturb you, darling listener, if I said the world speaks louder when it bleeds? That smiles are easier to shape than tears, and last much longer?”

Her voice curled around the reply like a noose. “I think monsters smile so they don’t scream.”

I held the mic tighter. My thumb tapped once. Twice. She rattled no nerves. She plucked them. With intent. Buy time. Redirect. “I must say,” I drawled, “you have a voice made for sin. I wonder, do you know a man by the name Husk? Rough edges, hands that tended bar with grace”. She didn’t bite. Of course not. But her silence wasn’t absent, it was bait. “Rumor tells of drinks he crafted that could draw confessions from marble statues. A whisper of longing served cold. If anyone knows where this feline might be purring in shadows? Well, I’d be most grateful.”

She exhaled, almost a hum. “Gratitude… from the nightly demon?” I let out a low laugh, more breath than sound. “Even devils say thank you, darling.”

Soft as ash drifting down a still-lit match.  “You already had a drink,” she said, smooth and round as a coin flicked across the dark. “Why ask for a second and ruin the taste of the first?”

My eyes flicked wide, and my fingers tightened, dragging the microphone closer with a screech of metal teeth on wood.

The swan? The ghost of last night?! My darling mystery with the knowing eyes and the nerve to disappear from my side like a ribbon in the wind.

I purred, dipping in a grin only murder could sharpen. “Oh… you wicked thing,” I breathed into the wire, “you’ve clipped your own wings to keep me chasing. You flew away from me.”

She giggled. A sound that curled down the back of my neck, soft and merciless. “Funny,” she whispered, “I don’t remember signing on the dotted line.” I grinned, teeth on edge, every syllable a slow-step dance toward her shadow. “You didn’t,” I said. “But oh, how I adore a chase with no contract. Would you mind terribly if I asked your name, swan of mine?”

“Names,” she mused, “are such delicate things. Like secrets. Once dropped, they shatter.” “I could hold it gently,” I offered, voice purring in its lowest register. “Or whisper it like a prayer, folded into music.”

“Mm, you talk too pretty for a sinner.” I leaned into the microphone, eyes glinting like knives behind curtains. “You talk like you know sin well enough to braid it into bedtime stories. So, tell me… why leave so quick last night? Surely you weren’t afraid of a little radio boy like me.”

She laughed, low and full of teeth. “If you were little,” she said, “I’d have stayed.” I choked on my own grin. “Oh, cruel,” I crooned, “deliciously cruel.”

“You didn’t picture me sounding like this.” I sighed, fingers trailing along the wires like they were her skin. “I imagined silk with a thread of thunder. But what I got was smoke and a string pulled tight around my ribs. Shame, but I adore surprises.”

Her breath caught. That little gasp! Oh my!  “Would you like to meet?” I asked, slow, deliberate, laced with delight. “Properly. No shadows, no tricks. Just you. Me. A drink untouched?”

She didn’t answer right away. Which was its own answer. The line stayed open, and I could feel her smile through the silence. And oh, what a wicked smile it must’ve been.

“I wouldn’t mind,” she said, soft as dusk settling over graves. “I’m not a man, after all.” The breath caught in my throat. No warning, no room to swallow. Her voice had lilted into something playful, coy, yet with a thread of precision that cut straight through my ribs. “But,” she added, “only on one condition.” Her words danced slow and careful. “Leave the smile at home. And that red pinstriped suit too. No charades. No games. Let’s meet as people, not ghosts.”

The air in the studio was still. No noise, no creak, hum, or static. Only me, her, and the echo of that sentence folding into the dark.

No smile. No suit. Bare. Exposed. As me. Me. Naked of persona, stripped of myth, emptied of masks stitched from sugar and razors.

Did she know? No. Couldn’t… could she? Maybe it wasn’t knowledge. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe she hunted with hunches, like all clever animals do. Maybe it was a joke, cruel and perfect, threading through her lips to see what squirmed beneath it.

Or maybe... she worked with him. The vulture in detective’s clothing. They’d met, I had no doubt. Her whole body, that night, sang with tension. A trembling thing caged in silk. Her smile had bent too carefully, as if trying not to snap in half. She left fast… pinning me down with liquid bait. Clever girl, my voice a murmur dipped in suspicion and silk.

“You want to meet the man behind the howl,” I said, smooth but edged, “not the showman in red. What an… unusual request. You wouldn’t happen to be working with a certain cigarette-scented bloodhound, would you?” No answer.

I let it breathe. Let her stew. Because whether she danced for her own pleasure or someone else’s leash… I intended to find out. And if this was a trap, well? What a thrill it would be to spring it from the inside.

A breath, the kind that sinks into bones. Not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “Oh, you know…” Her tone spilled like spiced wine across a white tablecloth. “Doesn’t everyone wear a little leash, Mr. Radio Star?” She toyed with it. With me.

I opened my mouth without measuring the words first, rare. Slipped, willingly. “I’d like to free yours.” The air wavered through the static, my tongue catching the heat of her silence.

A sound, low and amused, far from shy. “To switch it with yours?” she purred, every syllable sharper than the last. “Oh, I think not, Alastor.”

There! My name on her tongue. Soft and shaped like sin. I laughed, low and deliberate, letting it spread like smoke in a locked room. “That,” I said, “sounds quite nice.”

A pause. She held it. Twisted it. “You enjoy a leash, then?” A question laced with curiosity, not judgment. As if she’d already pictured it. As if she liked the idea of the noose, but preferred to be the one pulling. Mouth brushing the mic like a lover’s pulse beneath velvet. My voice thickened, velvet turned to molasses, slow and warm and heavy. The world faded to only her, her breath, her voice.

“Hm, darling…” I let it purr from my throat, dragged it across the air like a fingernail over bare skin. “I got you to say my name—and I must say—it sounds divine.” A hum laced with hunger wrapped around the last word. “Wouldn’t you want the same experience?” I paused, not for silence, but for the thrill. “It could be arranged. You only must do me a little favor, my dear…”

The next whisper curled like smoke from a cigarette between pressed lips. “Tell me… and it will be on my lips before the night forgets your voice.” Her breath coiled over the line like a hand about to pull away a mask. “Mmm… I’d say my boyfriend might mind if another man purred my name into the night like that.” The word hit the studio air like an iron door slamming shut. Boyfriend. My jaw did not tighten, no twitch, no hitch in breath. My lips curved upward, slow, smooth, the way a cut heals over deep infection.

“Ah,” I said, with a tilt in tone that oozed apology but stank of mockery.

“Would this… ‘boyfriend’… go by the name Husk, perhaps?” She didn’t answer fast enough. A beat of hesitation. The definitive answer. “I must offer my deepest regrets.” I placed a hand against my chest, as though a choir swelled behind me. “How tragic it would be to mistake such a radiant jewel for being unclaimed.” I smiled, calculating the depth of the lie. “I do pride myself on precision, darling. But had I known more about you, I wouldn’t have made such an unfortunate assumption.” My voice dipped, sweet with sugar and threat, recognizing the maneuver for what it was; a clever defense, not a casual remark. “One can only work with the pieces they’re given.”

She tried a reversal. Quick, flipping the coin, offering a mirror, trying to catch me in the same pretty snare. But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t give her the satisfaction. No, no—this stage was mine. “Now now,” I purred, hand sliding up the microphone’s neck as if coaxing a secret from her lips. “Let’s not get tangled in notions of guilt or mistaken impressions. I’ve a better idea…”

A soft hum in my throat, slow like syrup. “Why don’t we meet, hm? Just a simple chat. No red suit, no smile.” The last word dripped with irony. “I’d love to get to know this mysterious boyfriend as well. Wouldn’t that be a delightful evening?”

I paused, savoring the tension like aged brandy. “But that would be quite the deed, wouldn’t it? Since, as you said yourself—” My voice dropped low, into the deepest part of me, where charm turned to honeyed shadow. “—you’re not afraid of little old me because you’re not a man…” The grin behind the words spread wider.

“…but he is.”

A beat. The faint rustle of her breath on the other side. “So perhaps,” I whispered, “we keep this between us. For now. One meeting. A friendly one. What do you say, my lovely voice in the dark?”

A rustle crept through the static. Not breath this time. The scrape of paper, the clink of glass, a fabric shifts too cautiously to be casual. Someone near her. Scribbling, maybe. Notes? Lines to feed her tongue? The detective, perhaps. Leaning too close, voice in her ear like a parasite.

She sighed. A hush bloomed in the air, like velvet draped over tension. “…Fine,” she murmured, tone clipped, a thread of reluctance wound through her consonants. “Follow the instructions I’ll send after the show. Wouldn’t want any of your lovely little listeners dipping their fingers into our private get-together.”

Oh.

Oh.

My mouth parted, wordless for a beat, a single blink stretching long. I was still on air.

A low chuckle crawled up from my chest, shaking dust from my ribs. My fingers clawed the microphone closer, my spine straightened as if gripped by invisible strings. I’d flirted like a man starved—on live broadcast!

Oh, what a wicked thing she was. I nearly sang. Had I not slipped in that earlier apology, I’d be red-meat in tomorrow’s headlines. The press would eat me alive!

“This has been… a most enlightening call,” I hummed into the mic, voice drenched in syrup and smoke. “Let’s keep our little rendezvous tucked away, yes? The night has a taste for secrets, and I’ve acquired a new appetite.”

Static kissed the silence where she used to be. Gone. What a blast this was. And I? I couldn’t wait.

The rest of the night flew, breathless and blood bright. My voice danced through static like a devil’s hymn, hands flying across knobs and levers as if orchestrating a private symphony of sin. The rush, oh, the rush. It wrapped around my ribs and whispered against my spine.

Time, it sprinted. Escaped like a gasping victim in the dark, only this time, no chase. No blood. No death. Not tonight. My mood, lifted by the sweet perfume of her voice, made mercy possible. Even for Braxton.

Though the swine nearly broke it. He stood by the studio door, arms folded, mustache twitching with false dignity, voice already puffed with moral outrage before my shoes even clicked past the threshold.

"That performance—flirting on air—what kind of act are you running? I should throw you out myself!" His little tantrum stank of jealousy. Silence is a beautiful blade I like to use, once the tension snapped, I met his snarl with a smile soaked in honey and razors.

“Then why didn’t you?” My voice purred low and close, like it knew things it shouldn’t. “Maybe because I bring in the most bucks, hm?” Didn’t wait for the sputtered rebuttal. It wouldn’t have tasted half as good as the silence that followed my exit.

Out in the hallway, long shadows and flickering bulbs, something snagged my gaze. My name, angled on a slot like it hadn’t always been empty. A little envelope. Cream paper. Tucked like a kiss waiting to be caught.

Oh? I plucked it free, twirled it between fingers. Walked the whole way home with it dangling from knuckles like a prize ribbon. Handwriting danced across the front, delicate yet sure. Every glance it stole tugged another grin to my lips.

Home wrapped itself around me with quiet velvet. The envelope rested on my nightstand, unopened, unopened, unopened. Temptation steeped in delicious mystery.

Fingers hovered near my wardrobe, indecisive. What to wear? What does one drape across bones when the very air promises games with no masks? No pinstripes? No smile? No lies? My, my, darling. You do make things interesting.

Naked.

Wasn’t that the point? All peeled away. She didn’t ask for my charm. She asked me. Bones and skin, sinew and voice. The raw meat beneath the melody.

“Oh, my darling,” I whispered to no one, voice dripping with wicked delight, “if you wanted me bare, all you had to do was ask.”

The envelope lay quiet, virginal. Still untouched. A sin waiting for its priest. My fingers danced above it for a beat or two. One could argue patience was a virtue. One would be a fool. I tore it open with the eagerness of a boy promised summer. The paper crackled like whispers in a confessional. Ink, clean and crisp, no curls, no hearts. Just an address, no smile drawn beneath it. Cruel.

She knew. She knew how to bait me, and worse… how to hook.

I flopped backward onto the bed, giggling. The note danced above my head before floating down beside me, settling like a spider waiting to strike. "Curious little cat," I muttered, fingers brushing the lines of her script. "No time. No hint. Do I wait? Or do I dare?” Eyes slid toward the wardrobe, the polished brass catching faint moonlight. I already knew. The moment my eyes caught the address, I just knew. I rose with purpose, every step light, humming a little radio jingle from last week's weather update. Bare feet across wood, the floor groaned under my weight, old and familiar.

The bathroom light hummed. Stripped of suit, tie, persona. Water struck my shoulders in sharp slaps. The heat coiled around me, steam wrapping the room in a white shroud. I scrubbed away the scent of microphones and cigarette smoke, washed out the memory of long hours and short tempers. Out, dripping, towel clinging. The mirror gave me a look, one that asked if I knew what I was doing. I winked at him. He didn’t return it.

To the wardrobe. Velvet, of course. Dark, royal, no red. No laughing devil tonight. A deep green shirt, collar high and sharp. Cuffs kissed with brass buttons. Trousers black as ink, freshly pressed. Shoes shined like polished onyx. Vest tailored to the breath, cinched to show I gave a damn even if I pretended not to.

No tie. Let the throat breathe. Let it speak. No hat.

I hesitated at the smile, that cursed accessory. My lips curled against their will. No, not tonight. Her rules.

Pocket watch tucked into place. Gloves? No gloves. She wanted fingers, not a performance.

I gave the mirror another look. He didn't wink, but he didn’t look away either. “C’est moi,” I whispered. “Your humble monster, dressed for judgment.”

The letter folded, kissed once and into the coat it went.

Night tasted different in this part of the city. Less perfume, more ash. Streetlamps flickered, casting pale halos over cobbled walks and lingering shadows that stretched far longer than they should. The hotel didn’t try to hide what it was—cheap in the bones, worn in the eyes. Paint peeled in soft curls; the lobby clock ticked half a beat off. A place meant to be forgotten after midnight kisses and regretful dawns.

I rather liked it.

A bell chimed overhead when I stepped in. The receptionist glanced up, face pale with sleep or boredom. “Key was reserved,” he muttered, without prompt. “For one called... Demon.” My grin widened, deliciously. “That would be me, my good man. The one and only.” I tipped my head in greeting, voice curling with pleasant wickedness. He didn’t flinch. No spark of recognition, no uneasy shuffle. Just handed over the key and returned to his paper like I was a puddle in the street.

Lovely. Even better.

The key bore the number 3. I turned it between my fingers, thoughtful. Room three. A whisper of intent, maybe. Third act? Third sin? Third drink? She had flair, why not symbolism?

My boots whispered over the worn carpet, each step slow and indulgent. One flight. Not too high. Not too hidden. Practically inviting. A small door stood before me now. Peeling green paint. Brass numbers, dulled with age, hung crooked. Room three. I stared at the number, wondering if the good detective helped her stage this. A setup dressed in cheap sheets and scented with tension? A trap drenched in politics and hate, one woman stuck in the center?

No. That wouldn't suit her. She liked clarity with a hint of smoke, not chaos for chaos’ sake. Still, the thought. Oh, the thought. I shook my head, laughter bubbling low in my throat. Focus, darling. That’s not your first rodeo. But it might be the first with a willing ghost.

I could’ve barged in. Theatrical. Grand. Instead, I knocked. Three times. Polite. Suggestive. No pressure. Well, except the kind pressing behind my eyes and coiling in my gut like the last note of a favorite song stretched too far.

“Dearest,” I murmured under my breath, tilting my head toward the door, “the hour has come. And so have I.” The air shifted. Warmer. The scent of rosemary and trouble.

She was there. I knew it.

The door creaked open like a theatre curtain dragged by hesitant hands. And there she stood. Her dress was dark silk, precise and high-collared, seemingly tailored to contain the sheer volume of her intent. Light from the hallway kissed the outline of her cheek, lingered on her lashes, playing with the corner of her lips. No perfume clouded the air, only her warmth, composed, a lovely knot of restraint.

My smile unfurled of its own accord. How could it not? A portrait in motion, framed by chipped wood and the hush of lowlight. Close enough to taste, too far to touch.

Click. The door kissed my nose. I blinked. Airless silence held me in place for a beat.

A breath, no more. Then giggles. Mockery dressed up. The door opened again, wider this time. She no longer filled the frame. Already sauntering toward the modest bed at the far end, her hand rose commanding. Fingers curled and pointed toward a worn chair tucked neatly beside the dresser.

Well… that was new. My brow lifted, amused. A game, then. Very well. I played games better than most.

Stepping inside, I closed the door behind me with a quiet click. No lock. Not needed. The chair accepted my weight with a sigh. I crossed one leg over the other, fingers steepled at my chin, grin never fading. “My, my,” voice low, as if this were a stage and she the main act. “You do enjoy your entrances, don’t you?” She didn’t answer, only gave me that look. The one woman wore when they already knew the outcome but wished to see you squirm toward it. Focus, Alastor. But her silhouette shimmered like a fever dream, ripe with mischief, veiled in something thick. There she was. I wanted to feel the tension in that silk come apart beneath my fingers, to see the composure splinter, and to know the ruin belonged to me. That same tilt of her head, that knowing gleam, whispered louder than words.

She knew. She knew exactly what I wanted. What I would take. And what she might give.

Her eyes never flinched, never softened. Not an ounce of prey in that body, no, not tonight. Something feline purred beneath her skin, something watching me.

She broke the silence. “Call me whatever you want.” Ah, how about no? My chuckle dripped through the room. I rose in one fluid motion, slow, deliberate, letting the sound of the old chair creak behind me to mark the mood.

“Whatever?” I echoed, taking languid steps backward toward the door, hand hovering above the knob. “Darling, I’m not one for riddles. If all I get is a shadow, I’ll be on my merry way.” Tilting my head, grin sharp. “Because when I ask for more, I do not mean your name alone. I want your voice breaking on my own. Your body trembling as it wraps around me like my suits. I want your throat clutching my name like prayer.” No question lingered in that room now.

She sighed, not from defeat, not from shame; but with the weariness of someone done fencing words with blades that already cut deep.

“…Dolores.”

I turned on the spot, once, twice, spinning with her name in my mouth like candy. “Dolores … Dolores…” The syllables melted across my tongue. “Ah, there you are.”

Bed sheets rustled under my weight as I settled beside her without warning. A sharp little jolt rippled through her shoulders when the mattress dipped, body tugged slightly in my direction.

“You’re mine now, mon colibri,” I breathed low, close enough for the heat of my lips to taste the shell of her ear. “You’ve landed.”

Fingers ghost above her hand, not touching, coaxing her to lean, to yield, to fall headfirst into the chaos I brought like a storm dressed in fine manners.

“Let’s not waste what we already know, hm?” I purred low. “No masks. No lies. Just us.”

A tilt of her head broke the silence. Eyebrows arched, voice caught between disbelief and nerves. “E-excuse me? What are you—? What do you think this is?”

My own brow rose to meet hers, though my smile never faltered. “You mean to tell me... you don’t know?” My voice was sweet with mock hurt. “All this… the chase, the dear little letter? It meant nothing to you?”

I stood from the mattress with a creak, walking slow, deliberate steps. “And here I thought you clever. Perhaps too clever, my dear. I had considered the possibility this whole rendezvous was a darling ploy. A mouse, carrying the cat’s teeth in her pocket.”

I traced the air near her arm, close enough to stir the warmth of her skin without ever brushing it. Back and forth, like a pendulum, my fingers danced in a private rhythm I’d love to see her choke on. Her breath hitched, eyes darting down to the space between us. Good she was still listening.

“But if this is a game for your detective friend,” I hummed, leaning back ever so slightly, “they should’ve sent someone less... readable. Your heart’s too loud, darling. It’s practically shouting.”

A scoff tried to form on her lips. Poor thing. Uncertain whether to be amused, angry, or enticed. Perhaps all three. “I assure you,” I purred, voice dipping lower, “if they seek dirt, they’ll find I bathe in it. What’s one more notch? Or do you think the papers would write of it like scandal, instead of gospel?”

Still no answer, mouth slightly agape, blinking too fast. A nervous laugh trickled out.

“Oh, no no,” I chuckled softly, stepping back a half pace, “don’t look at me like that. I’ve not touched you. Not yet. Haven’t even asked for a kiss.” A beat. “But I did ask for your name. And you gave it.”

I sank again beside her again, this time more gently. No sudden dips. No stage flourishes. Only warmth. My presence folding into the space between. “Dolores,” I whispered her name once more, savoring it like a fine liquor against the teeth. “I thought you might want to see what it sounds like from my lips again, hm?” No claws. No force. Just breath and words.

A breath, calm as winter air, passed her lips. The stammer had vanished. “This isn’t about sex, Alastor.” Her voice held weight now. Clear, unflinching. “I thought you knew that. Did you even listen?”

The air snapped, faintly. My grin tightened, fighting the deep, internal surge of challenged control. A pleasure specific and coiled snapped in my throat. “Oh?” A single syllable. Careful, crafted. She folded her hands, fingers linking tight. A flicker of disappointment, no, of something disciplined, crossed her gaze. “I thought you didn’t swing that way anyway.” A pause. The stillness in my chest stretched taut, but outward I laughed smoothly. This particular nerve being touched was more exhilarating than any casual conquest. “My dear,” I said, voice slick with disbelief, “have you lived under a rock? Who- whoever in this twisted town doesn’t know of my... appetite for precision? Surely not you, of all people.”

I leaned in, not menacing, not gentle, only curious. Like I’d found a secret tucked under her tongue. “Do enlighten me. What specific control, pray tell, do you think I crave?” No answer. Not immediately. But her eyes didn’t lower. No blush, no fluster. Instead, a small shiver rode her spine. A twitch in her shoulders. Hard to catch. Impossible to ignore.

“Why meet in a hotel,” I asked, softer now, low and slow, “if not to indulge in a..." letting my eyes wander from hers to her lips and back up, "little sin together?”

Her jaw clenched. A whisper escaped, half breath, half blade. “Because I’d rather not indulge in that specific choreography of sin.”

She looked at me like she’d peeled off my skin with her words and didn’t mind the gore.

“That smile,” she muttered, cold now, “the one I asked you to leave at home... but you can’t, can you? Mr. Fake-Star.” A strike to the ego. My smile held. Fixed like a portrait. But behind it, something prickled.

The lights overhead flickered, faintly. My fingers tapped the mattress once. Twice. Like a heartbeat trying to decide whether to rise or fall.

“Oh, darling,” I breathed, the smile sharpening, “you wound me.” Still, I didn’t rise. I stayed seated, hands now folded in my lap like claws beneath good intentions.

She wanted honesty? No, no. She wanted something more dangerous than that... ah! So that was the game. She really knew something?

The sweet-mouthed dove who fluttered from my barstool last night wore her feathers sharp tonight. Her voice rang crisp in the stilled air, no longer unsure or soft, no longer weaving compliments like lullabies.

"I know what kind of body count you stack, Mr. Radio Star," she said, gaze like iced velvet. “You adore the scream, don’t you? No broadcast polish on that part.”

The smile on my lips held, but oh, what a curious ache began behind it.

No one had ever spoken that aloud before. Not like this. The blood-laced thrill I tucked beneath jokes and jazz… never part of the show. Not overtly. Not like that. Never that specific. My little secret, kept with the same loving attention I gave to a needle skipping on wax or a spine cracking beneath pressure.

She was a gift. A perfectly bound secret waiting for the ribbon to be pulled, taut and slow. I wanted to see her spine bend not from fear, but from the exquisite, willing weight of my absolute possession; I wanted her voice, that siren voice, to break against my teeth, reduced to small, sweet sounds of confession and surrender.

The impulse to pin her wrist, to taste the precise moment her control failed, hit me with a jolt of a heady, electric current that made the back of my throat seize.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, fighting the instinct to shed the last thread of civility and lick the air between us.

Focus!

She tilted her head. The light caught in her hair like threads of gold caught in honey. “And I thought you weren’t afraid of being caught. Is that not your whole schtick?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Fearless little star.”

How quaint. I rose, slow, as if drawn by strings. Pacing now, steps smooth across the creaking floorboards. The scent of old smoke, lavender powder, and dust stirred. Something brushed past my heel, a floorboard warped in the shape of a trapdoor, metaphorical or otherwise, it worked as a distraction.

She tracked me with her eyes. No attempt to flee, no trembling hands or backwards lean. She watched like I was a tiger in the center ring, waiting for the lash of my tail to snap.

“You’re quite the actress,” I murmured. “Tell me—how long were you practicing that little monologue? Did the good detective help you with your lines?” No answer. Though the curve of her mouth twitched. Amusement, perhaps?  I scanned the room with seemingly lazy affection while trying to calm down a little, brushing fingers along the edge of a framed mirror. Something flickered in the corner, no more than a pulse. A breath. There. Cabinet door. Not quite closed.

Mmm, I just love it when I'm right.

One flick of the wrist and the wood split apart to reveal two shadows crouched inside. The detective. And, oh, hello—someone from the press. The camera flash failed, emitting a pathetic, muffled puff of light. "Now that," I said with the grin I save for thunder and blood and lightning-split skies, the smile she’d asked me to leave at home, "is not exactly subtle, my friends." I turned back to Dolores, who watched arms crossed, the victim of a failed staging.

I scoffed, the sound was sharp and cold as broken glass. “Gentlemen,” I said, my voice smooth but brittle, immediately shifting the narrative. “Why not leave her be? She’s tormented enough by your vile pressures…”

“… let her breathe,” I repeated, a dark edge cutting through the velvet words. “Go on. Leave,” I ordered, rising with deliberate grace, every inch the predator masking a protective, proprietary fury.

They hesitated. The pressman gave a short nod and followed, steps heavy with reluctant retreat. The trap had sprung, but they caught nothing but their own desperate failure.

Door clicking shut, the silence wrapped around us, thick and suffocating as we were finally all alone.

Eyes sharp as razors I turned to her, “you know something,” I said quietly, almost tenderly, “something you’re scared to say aloud.” She met my gaze, her face was an exquisite mask of conflict. “No need to hide it,” I murmured, stepping closer. “I won’t let it slide.” The room held its breath, a fragile moment suspended between threat and invitation.

The night, for all its chaos, had just become infinitely more interesting.

Chapter Text

The room was dark. Too dark. Shadows clung to the corners, thick and uneasy, making everything feel unfamiliar and wrong, like stepping into a dream where none of the furniture quite fit. A heavy curtain suffocated the outside world, allowing only a dim sliver of morning light to penetrate. I groaned; fuck, my head was pounding like a madman against his sanity.

The air was oppressively warm, carrying a scent that was sweet and vaguely metallic, like perfume laced with danger. My body felt sluggish, hampered by the bitter taste and cotton mouth clinging to me from the previous night.

It wasn’t the slow graze of fingertips across my rough, stubbled chest that fully woke me, but the sudden, deliberate weight pressing into my hips that snapped my eyes open.

Above me, a blur of red lace and impossibly smooth skin seemed to drink the meager light. She was a magnificent, intoxicating anchor, straddling me like a rider claiming a panicked beast. The ribbon-thin hem of her skirt scraped my inner thighs like dry kindling, lifting higher with every calculated, slow shift of her weight. The immediate friction was a hot, tight shock, clearing the fog from my brain faster than any pain. Ribbons tied precariously across her chest fluttered softly, whispering promises of how easily they could be undone. Her breath, a humid, deliberate furnace, whispered promises too hot for the room against my throat. “You sleep like the dead,” she murmured, the low vibration traveling straight through my jaw and into my pounding skull.

My hangover dissolved instantly, replaced by sharp, frantic clarity. My hands instinctively clamped down, possessive and rough, against the burning heat of her bare thighs, shocked by their softness. “Where the hell am I?” I rasped, my voice broken by sleep. She didn’t answer. Her fingers slid down my abdomen, teasing just beneath my waistband. Every movement felt deliberate, unhurried. Her nails scratched lightly over my skin, pulling a shiver from me despite the heat. “You’ll remember later,” she whispered, her mouth so close our lips nearly touched. Eyes glinted with mischief in the dark. I couldn't recall her name, wasn’t even sure of mine, but the way her body moved, the secrets her ribbons threatened to spill, suddenly overshadowed all else.

The world outside the room faded into silence. There was only her, the darkness, and the steady surge of tension rising between us. She noted that my voice sounded deeper, rougher than usual. I offered no true reply as my hands flexed, desperately carving temporary bruises into the yielding flesh of her thighs, trying to ground myself in the sheer wrongness of the situation.

The dizzying throb in my temples became a relentless counter-rhythm to the roaring fire erupting deep in my gut. Words were useless; I could only surrender to the thick, animalistic sound of pure want that ripped from my chest as I arched my neck back into the linen. The painful, glorious contrast of my internal ache against the slick, insistent pressure of her body was the only remaining truth.

Her hips rolled slowly, teasing, drawing something primal out of me, breath by breath. I caught her waist, not to halt her, but to steady myself, to truly wake up, to feel. Only when her rhythm pulled an unwanted groan from my chest did I manage a slurred question, heavy with dazed curiosity and suspicion: “Who, who the hell… are you?” She laughed, sweet, soft, and wicked, purring, “Your girlfriend, duh?” before kissing me, slow and deliberate. Her lips were warm, yet foreign. She tasted like something dangerous disguised as candy.

I grunted into her mouth, tangled in confusion and desire. One hand slid up, fingers tracing the ribbon line where it met bare skin. I pulled gently, feeling the tension, the slight give, the quiet invitation. So soft. So damn soft! My breath hitched, my grip trembled. The room, the air, even her presence, still felt wrong, too dreamlike. But the way she moved, how her body molded against mine, was far too real to be dismissed.

My grip tightened as her hips dipped, and with a sudden rough exhale, instinct took over; I bucked up beneath her. The motion was raw and eager, pulling a sweet, breathy sound from her lips—half moan, half laughter. “Mm—there he is,” she whispered, rocking with me. I blinked up, dazed. The rhythm, the heat, her presence! It enveloped my senses like velvet, too soft to be genuine. “I… must be dreaming,” I muttered, my voice thick with whiskey and sleep. “Fuck. What a dream…!”

I didn’t have a girlfriend, especially not someone like her. Wait. I squinted through the dark. This was real, wasn't it? I pressed the question again, “no, but really, who are you?” She didn't use words. Instead, she deliberately guided my hand up, settling it right over the warm swell of her chest, atop the ribbon. My palm molded perfectly to her, fingers twitching. The satin fluttered slightly; it seemed ready to fall away with just a bit more pressure. My breath caught, eyes fluttering half-shut, this was so naughty!

A desperate, suffocating gasp punched the air from my lungs. “God— you’re so fuckin’ soft,” I rasped, the words tearing my throat, raw with escalating need. When my thumb grazed bare skin and I felt the weight of her breast settle into my palm, a lightning bolt of sensation seized every nerve end, jolting through my limbs “Just F-fuck…!”

Her breath was a hot, decisive command in my ear, “stop thinking. Just drown in me.” God help me, I obeyed. My breathing turned ragged, a fire catching too fast and blooming heat through my chest. Her body moved against mine in slow, hungry waves. Every grind of her hips sparked a desperate hunger deep in my core. The friction was maddening; the fragile lace and cotton only sharpened the raw, demanding ache to feel only her.

My hands became greedy, sliding up her back, down to her thighs, before gripping her waist again, pulling her harder against me. I needed more. I needed to feel her unravel just as much as she was making me fall apart. My mouth descended, latching onto her flushed, slick skin, hammering frantically. I claimed the slope of her neck, sucking hard, my teeth grazing the delicate skin and leaving a damp sting where the ribbon brushed my cheek. Her moans transformed into a sharp, tearing cry. Her spine arched violently, urging me tighter, deeper into the dark. “God— You feel unreal…” I hissed into her skin.

She whimpered in reply, her hips bucking against me in a desperate rhythm. The sound sent a pulse through me, making me gasp against her chest, licking a trail along the ribbon's edge like it was the sole barrier between me and losing my mind entirely.

Moving with her now, dry thrusts dragging and clashing as our bodies chased mutual tension. My hands grabbed wherever possible, pulling her closer, trying to give back every sensation she elicited. I wanted to make her shudder, make her cry out, and make her remember me for days.

“Let me—fuck—let me make you feel good too,” I rasped, my breath shaking against her neck. She only moaned, urging me to continue, to keep pressing my lips to every inch of exposed skin. The air grew thick with heat and breath, spiraling around us. The room’s surreal haze blurred, but she remained the single constant, my only anchor. I surrendered completely: to her, to the moment, to the impossible, aching pleasure of it all.

The tension reached an unbearable breaking point in its sweetness. I barely recognized my own voice anymore, it was too rough and reverent, caught between raw need and disbelief. “You’re… God, you’re… fuck,” I gasped, watching as she shifted down my body, her hair trailing fire across my skin. She looked up, her lips parted in a sultry smile that made my entire body tense. “Just relax,” she whispered. “Let me take care of you, birthday boy.” I sucked in a breath as her hands slid lower, dragging heat and want.

My fingers gripped the sheets. I struggled to keep my eyes open, desperate not to miss watching her. “Fucking hell… you’re,” I muttered, my voice cracking as I trembled beneath her. “You’re perfect… You feel like a sin I never even deserved.” She lowered herself further. I groaned, long and broken, throwing my head back into the pillow. My praise dissolved into incoherent, broken words spilling between sharp breaths. “Dear God… fuck, sweetheart… You’re… you’re gonna kill me…”

The pace, the sensation, the everything merged into something nameless. Pleasure, confusion, and heat folded together, leaving me floating, utterly at her mercy. Even through the dizzying sweetness, a sliver of thought sliced through the haze. Who was she? Why did this still feel like a dream I did not want to wake up from? I could barely breathe.

I felt her hands, warm and deliberate, mapping the lines of my skin like she was learning a forgotten language. My pulse tripped over itself, unsteady and wild. I bit my lip, trying to keep myself from dissolving too quickly.

I couldn't stop my hand from finding her hair, slipping my fingers through it, holding her there as though she might vanish with the next heartbeat. Every shiver that moved through me narrowed the world down to that single connection.

I bit down hard, trying to hold back the noise fighting to break free. It was maddening, a wicked rhythm.

I couldn't stop myself.

I dragged her down by her hair, snapping my waist up to meet her. Trapping the woman made of the sweetest dreams, releasing grunts that morphed into moans.

Grip tightened abruptly; I couldn't hold back any longer. “F-fuck-! I-I ah!” I managed to squeeze out as I came hot into her mouth.

This gained me an amused chuckle from her. I lay there, chest heaving, sweat clinging to my skin, my limbs heavy and tingling with aftershocks. The room remained cloaked in oppressive, thick darkness.

She crawled back up my body like silk over bare nerves—languid, slow, seductive. Her lips glistened as she smiled, murmuring softly, “hmmm… Joel…”

My breath hitched. Joel? The fog in my head instantly cleared. My body stiffened; adrenaline cut through the warmth like ice water. “…Joel?” I repeated, my voice now sharp with unease. She froze, confusion flickering. “Yeah,” she said slowly, looking at my face again. “Joel... you’re acting really weird?”

Everything clicked, the wrong name, the wrong room, the wrong girl.

“I’m not Joel,” I announced, sitting up more fully, my muscles coiled in alertness rather than pleasure. “My name is Husk. And I… I don’t even have a girlfriend.” She blinked, thinking it was a joke. “I’m serious,” I insisted, staring at her with stony face and furrowed brows. “I don’t know you. I don’t even know where the hell I am.”

She mentioned an "Airbnb" and stood quickly, fumbling toward the wall. Nothing happened. There was no switch. “What the hell’s an air-bee-n-whatever?” I asked, voice low and tense. “Is that a place? A town? What are you talking about?”

She turned to me slowly, fear replacing confusion. “You don’t… know what an Airbnb is?”

“No,” I said flatly, after a long, quiet second. The silence grew colder. Something wasn’t right; a woman like her, wanting me? Yeah, sure…

She stood frozen, wrapping her arms around herself. “Okay,” she said, trying for firmness, though her voice trembled. “Okay, just… you turn on the light. Please.”

“You’re the one crawlin’ all over me a second ago, and now I’m your damn light switch?” I arched a brow. She shot me a look, “I just gave you a freaking blowjob, the least you can do is flip a switch.” I let out a long, gravelly sigh: “Fair point,” I muttered, shifting to move.

I reached out, gently brushing her aside with reluctance. I didn’t want to dislodge her warmth. “Sorry,” I mumbled under my breath. “You’ll probably regret even talkin’ to me when you see what I actually look like.” She was caught off guard by my statement. “Nothing,” I quickly stated, standing now, my steps slightly unsteady. My body ached, half pleasure, half-dragged down by the throbbing in my head. “I’ll find the damn light.”

I reached for the nearest wall, feeling along its surface. No switch. I moved to another wall; my fingertips found only bare drywall—smooth, cold, and unbroken. “The hell…” I muttered. Still nothing. She insisted the switch was always by the bed. “Lady,” I grunted, pressing my palm flat against the wall, “I don’t even know what the hell an Air-bee-anythin’ is. I woke up in a room that feels like it hates bein’ real, next to a girl who thinks I’m some guy named Joel. So, forgive me if I ain’t real confident about what’s supposed to be where.” I grunted and moved away from the useless wall. Still half-naked and hungover, I scanned the room, narrowing my eyes at the strange angles and the faded, curling wallpaper. The room itself felt wrong, dressed up in a half-remembered memory.

No light switch, but a thick velvet curtain concealing a tall, narrow window. “Hold up,” I muttered. I crossed to it and pushed the curtain aside; dust puffed into the air. The glass was old and warped, but light flickered faintly through it.

I unlatched the window and shoved it open. The smell hit me first: damp, earthy, sweet rot and something floral. Crickets buzzed somewhere far off, and the air was heavy, sticky, humming with heat. Beyond the warped glass frame lay a crooked balcony and past that, a muddy, winding bayou under a sky the color of bruised eggplant. Cypress trees, draped in hanging moss, swayed. The sound of water lapping somewhere below reached my ears.

She appeared beside me, asking where we were. I turned to her, the confusion and dread momentarily dissolved into dry sarcasm. “Well,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair, “I got sucked off, and then sucked into this, so—technically—a win?”. She gave me a look. I could only smirk, “too soon?”

She stared out the window, gripping the sill. “What day is it?” I shrugged, glancing over my shoulder. “Tuesday?”

“No,” she said, sharper. “I mean—like what year?” I turned back to her, one brow lifting, my voice coated in dismissive dryness. “Hell, if I know. 1857-something?” She turned slowly towards me. “No,” she whispered. “I’m from 2025.”. I froze. My smirk vanished completely.

The bayou continued buzzing outside; the air felt thicker. I stared at her, disbelief fighting with confusion. “You’re from… what, the future?” She nodded slowly, explaining she went to sleep in her apartment and wanted to surprise ‘her babe,’ who she thought was me. “Okay,” I concluded, “so either one of us is dreaming… or someone’s screwin’ with us in spectacular fashion.”

The murky light of the moon finally spilled in, casting the room in dim silver. It was enough to see that the room was disturbingly normal. An old-fashioned dresser, hand-painted plates, a warped mirror. The air was too clean, too preserved, like it had been waiting. I scratched my neck. “This place gives me the creeps.”

She crossed to a narrow closet door; it groaned, of course. Inside hung long-forgotten garments: a waistcoat, suspenders, a corset. She held up a lacy blouse, saying it was that or her ‘thong and shame’. I gave a dry snort, “yeah, alright. Let’s get dressed like actors.”

A few awkward minutes later, we stood before the dusty mirror, dressed like a couple from a sepia photograph. I wore suspenders over a wrinkled shirt, sleeves rolled, and slightly too-short pants. The clothes didn’t fit right. She joked we looked like a haunted jazz duo. I huffed, turning to the door, “let’s get the hell outta this creep show.”

The hallway was eerily silent. The front door groaned. Outside, the bayou spread out under the pale moonlight, stunning in a twisted, swampy way. Frogs answered the screaming crickets; an owl called in the distance.

She stood just past the porch, scanning the dark wilderness. “You’re not ugly, you know,” she said softly. The words hit me like a cold splash. “What?” I asked, unsure if I’d heard correctly. She said I’d worried she’d regret seeing what I looked like, but insisted I was "kinda handsome... like my babe at home." I froze, stunned into silence. “…Oh,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck and looking away. “…Well. Shit.” My ears turned pink.

We began walking down the narrow path, our feet crunching over wet roots and leaves. Neither of us spoke much. To me, the heavy, humming air felt like any other day.

The quiet stretched long until I finally cleared my throat. “So. What’s the future like?” I grumbled, eyes ahead. She glanced at me, surprised, asking if I meant 2025. “No, I meant tomorrow,” I shot back dryly, clarifying, “Yeah. 2025.” She described it as weird, loud, and fast. “Sounds exhausting,” I muttered. She asked what my time was like. “I’d rather not,” I sighed, the sound heavy and honest. “I spent most of it knocked out in some corner or gambling away what I didn’t have,” I went on after a pause. “Just tryin’ to keep afloat, y’know? The job at the bakery… it was supposed to be my shot at straightenin’ out. Do somethin’ real. Earn somethin’ honest.” I kicked a stone. “Wasn’t much. But it was mine.”

She gently hummed that I was already better than I thought. She offered that we were "in this together." I stopped, blinking at her. “…Why?” I pointed out her boyfriend and life back in her world. She paused, looking across the misty bayou, saying she had "this feeling," like she already knew who I was. I scoffed, turning my head as if hiding the impact of her words. “Bullcrap.” Before she could answer, I pointed ahead “there. Look—some houses.”

Through a break in the trees, we saw the faint shapes of old wooden buildings. Signs of life appeared. As we got closer to them, the night sounds amplified, joined by the faint, undeniable hum of civilization. A man sat smoking on the porch of the first house we passed. She asked him the date, and he squinted at us, echoing something that did not make any sense even though it did? “What day? It’s Saturday. June, I believe. Year’s 1922.” My jaw shifted slightly and we moved on quickly.

This was getting increasingly absurd, and I did not like it, in the slightest… but knowing that I wasn’t alone, that we had us, in this haunted dream that became reality? That calmed me, just a little, but it was better than nothing.

The lights of the city—gas lamps and buzzing bulbs—started appearing through the trees. Brick buildings loomed. The air changed, now carrying bold, brassy jazz pouring from clubs.

She slowed at the outskirts of the quarter, murmuring about the city. “Feels like it doesn’t want to—” I replied, scanning the streets, constantly on edge. She suddenly whispered, “—Fuck me, I hope this freaky Radio Demon’s not alive. Not here... but looking at you? Shit.”

“The what now?” I blinked, cocking a brow. She said he wasn't just a story; he was a monster in a suit before he died.

“You’re tellin’ me demons are real?” I frowned. She nodded, adding that I had been one too, later, in a ‘show’. I gave her a sideways look, completely thrown off. “You’re sayin’ I was a demon? In a show…?” Is that little lady shitting me?

“In Hell, yeah,” she said softly. “But here? You’re… different. Human. I think we’re both stuck somewhere between.” The word, 'demon,' settled like a fresh layer of filth. It wasn't a shock; it was just confirmation of every bitter, ugly thing I already knew about myself. I dragged a hand down my face, hard, scraping the rough stubble as if trying to wipe the label away. The roar in my head was deafening. “Alright. Sure. Let’s just throw sanity out the damn window,” I conceded, a half-laugh escaping me. “Any chance you wanna explain why that one guy—what’d you call him, the Radio Demon—scares you so bad?”

She stopped walking, looking straight into my eyes. “Because he wasn’t human. Not inside. He played the part… but he was all teeth and static under the surface. And if he’s here… if he’s alive… I don’t want to meet him!”

“…Right,” I muttered. “Well. Let’s hope he’s outta town tonight.” She spotted a corner shop ahead. She pulled me by the wrist; I let her guide me, my mind reeling. Jazz played on, and something behind the music sounded like laughter. The shop window showed the same unreal, real? Date, “June 3rd, 1922,”. Headlines declared a “SPEAKEASY BASH” celebrating a radio tower completion and an “MISSING PERSONS NUMBERS INCREASING”

“Speakeasy bash,” I echoed with a slow exhale. “Well, at least we know where the party’s at.” She worried that's where he might be. So, no party ‘n drink to drown this weird shit out. Just. My. luck.

An officer approached with heavy steps. His voice was warm yet edged. He tipped his hat, noting we were new and looked lost. I tensed slightly as she effortlessly cuts in smoothly, asking where we could find work. The officer suggested docks, kitchens, or clubs. “I can bake. Or clean. Or lift stuff,” I offered, playing the part. He chuckled, saying we might fit in fine. He handed her a pamphlet. He warned us to avoid the bayou due to missing people. I glanced down at the paper and the headlines. This shit is crazy, but she seems to have a clue or two, better follow her and try to make sense piece after piece. Also, a new life? New beginning… maybe this was a good thing?

The speakeasy entrance was tucked behind a bakery, marked only by muffled laughter and the thump of a bass. A bored man let us in with a grunt. Inside, the atmosphere exploded into heat, color, and sound. Red lanterns gave the space a sultry glow.

We found the manager by the bar and after a little talking handed Dolores a tray. “And me?” I cleared my throat. The manager looked me up and down, unimpressed. “You look like a whiskey-soaked stray. Come back clean and awake and we’ll talk.” I grunted, scratching my arm. “Yeah. Sure.” Dolores gave me an apologetic glance but took the tray. “I’ll be okay. One shift. We need the money.” I leaned close before she moved off, my voice low. “Just don’t disappear on me.” She winked at me with a soft smile, it was quite a sight.

I watched from the side, arms crossed, mixing discomfort with pride while the music buzzed. When Dolores returned for a break, flushed and shining, I offered a half-smile. “Looked like you belonged up there.”

“Felt kinda like I did,” she said. I glanced at the door, “I’ll try the docks tomorrow. Ain’t nobody hiring at this hour anyway.” We looked at each other a little longer. Just two strangers trying to carve out something real in a time and place that didn’t belong to either of us.

She wiped down her tray, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I leaned in a little, my eyes following the curve of her shoulder. My voice was rough, low, almost thoughtful against the trumpet flares and clinking glasses. “Tell me more,” I said, “About the demon in red. And me. In the future” She paused, not quite meeting my eyes, murmuring that we shouldn't talk about it here, not with so many ears listening. I nodded once, then leaned back as she returned to her shift, watching her slip back into that persona—all hustle and charm, smiling and floating between the tables.

Her last tray hit the bar close to 3 a.m. She returned with a weary grin, pulling crumpled bills from her garter and laying them out. It was just enough for a cheap bed, maybe food. I muttered something that sounded like figures, rubbing the back of my neck. Neither of us spoke the thought aloud, but we knew the only place we could go, back to that house in the bayou.

The night was thicker than before, the swamp sounds louder, the moon staring down too closely. The house was exactly as we’d left silent, slightly crooked, pressing in around us like it knew we’d come crawling back.

Inside, we found canned goods in the crooked pantry. She wrinkled her nose at the expiration date, but hunger won out. I made a fire in the hearth with old wood that smelled like rot and clove. With our bellies full and our backs pressed to the floor in front of the warmth, we could finally relax a little.

“So,” I started after a while, my voice quieter, “you gonna tell me now?” She sat up slowly, picking at a frayed thread on her skirt. It is best to know what she does, before thinking about the ‘how the fuck is this even possible’ elephant in the room.

She hadn't seen everything about me, she confessed, just pieces. I didn’t interrupt; I just waited. She said I was a bitter thing, always with a drink in hand, but still standing when others dropped. I’d snarl and shove, but I never truly left people behind. I tried to push them away, she said, but she didn't think I ever stopped caring.

I looked down, letting that sink in. “And that demon?” I asked, my voice low. “The Radio one?” She sighed, explaining his name was Alastor. He dressed like he was plucked from a vaudeville show, always talking like he was broadcasting to an audience only he could hear. “What was he like?” I asked.

“Joyful,” she said, “But not… happy. Just… on. All the time. Everything was a performance” She described his movements and talk as though he was laughing at some private joke that only made sense in his head. She didn't think he ever truly connected with anyone; he didn't want to. She called it ‘Joyful isolation’ a fear that if he let someone in, the act would crumble. So, he kept everyone entertained or scared, always at arm’s length. I watched the fire, my brows pinched. “…That’s a lonely kind of monster,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” she whispered. We sat in silence for a while, only the crackle of the flame and the croon of frogs filling the space. I could still hear the far-off jazz floating on the wind.

We worked. Day in, night out. I managed to land a job down by the docks, lifting crates and loading cargo from the riverboats. It paid just enough, kept my head down, my arms sore, and my focus. Sometimes, when the speakeasy needed help, I picked up a night shift behind the bar. I was good at it—silent, efficient, the kind of guy people trusted after a few shots.

She stuck with the speakeasy: night shifts, heavy trays, voices too close to her ear, hands that weren't polite. But she kept her chin high, her smile dry, and her sharp wit. We slowly started building something like a life. That eerie old house in the bayou, which had felt like a trap, started to feel a little like ours. We patched leaks, swept, hung clothes to dry, and bought basic supplies. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was something to hold on to.

One horrible night, near the end of her shift, a tall, slick-haired detective with a white grin and deep voice started flirting with her. I stood behind the bar, slowly wiping down a clean glass, watching and listening with a tight jaw and narrow eyes. Every instinct screamed at me to step out from behind the counter. I didn’t like him getting so close to her.

But we kept going. Through it all, I grew quieter and softer around her. Her kindness dug deep beneath my skin. Especially on those rare mornings when the sun peeked in through the warped windows, and I found her curled into my side, soft and peaceful. She looked at me like she truly saw something, past the stubble, the sharp tongue, and all the baggage I carried. She saw past all the crap I used to write off as unlovable and ugly.

It did a number on me.

She missed home and her modern world. She missed the simplicity, the ease of her old, normal life. The lack of real toothbrush bristles made her cry one night. Still, she saw something fresh and real here. Maybe the quiet wasn't all bad.

She still had someone waiting for her, her boyfriend Joel back home. We agreed it would be easier to pretend to be a couple in this time, but for me, it wasn’t pretend anymore. I kept it quiet, but the tension was real every time she brought him up.

And there was him… Alastor. She’d heard his voice on the radio once or twice. That too-smooth, too-charming lilt that made her and my skin crawl. Now we knew that he was here, maybe still human, maybe not yet twisted. The fear clung to her, a constant tension, not for herself, but for me. She worried we might cross paths, that he might end it then and there.

So, she worked, keeping her eyes sharp. She avoided men in crimson suits like poison. The detective, Marlowe, the flirt who made me bristle? Maybe he could be useful she said… and I reluctantly agreed.

Marlowe stepped into the speakeasy. Pinstriped, cocky, his smug eyes locked onto her like she was a glass of bourbon in a dry county. I hated that.

He sidled up to the bar. “You got the look of someone who doesn't belong here,” he told her, with a low drawl. “Smart. Sharp. Dangerous. What’s a dame like you doing with a tray and cheap gin?” He made me sick.

She didn't flinch. She looked down at him, cool as ice. “Keeping men like you from choking on their egos, mostly,” she said smoothly, setting down two drinks before pivoting away. He chuckled, surprised. “You’re not like the rest of ‘em.”

“No,” she replied, “I use my brain.”

Marlowe leaned in, asking if she ever considered using that brain for more than carrying drinks. “I think about it all the time,” she retorted. “Usually while carrying drinks and dodging leers.”

Then, she tipped her head toward me, “Husk? Baby? That’s my boyfriend, by the way.” Pointing my way.

Marlowe paused mid-sip, looking at me. I was polishing a glass. My gaze didn't lift, but the set of my jaw said enough; I was all teeth under the silence.

He cleared his throat, setting the glass down carefully. “Ah. Hell. Didn’t mean to— y’know. Disrespect. You just don’t meet many girls with spark like that. Especially not around here.” She tilted her head, all charm with a sharp underside. “Maybe the spark doesn’t go out. Maybe men just stop looking.”

He smiled sheepishly, but his eyes were calculating. He snapped his fingers, excitement creeping into his voice. “Wait—wait a damn second. I could use that. You. That mind, that face. That’s exactly what we need!” That made my eyebrow rise on its own accord, that wording did not go unnoticed by me, what a prick ass-fucking fuck-!

She narrowed her eyes. My glass-stroking paused; I needed to calm down. We wanted to use him, so I had to shut my trap. “To do what, exactly?” she asked.

“To lure the bastard out!” Marlowe was practically glowing. He described a slippery, smart criminal who was “smooth as hell that guy.” He said she could get close, catch him off guard. “And you thought that would be appealing to me because…?” she asked, and I had to conceal the tsk noise that threatened to escape my mouth.

He leaned in, his voice low and serious. He offered enough money to buy our way out of this ‘rat maze’ if the plan worked. The figures made us both freeze. Enough to buy a new place, far from the bayou and this decade. He appealed to her sense of civic duty, catching a ghost with teeth. He suggested the target, a bastard who frequented places like this, could be caught by a smart girl with a soft touch for something “more… monstrous.”

She just looked at me. I stood rigid behind the bar, my hands fists on the counter, my eyes hard. I knew what was boiling underneath, she probably saw it too. The tension we called fake was no longer one-sided. I wasn't her boyfriend, not really, but the look in my eyes said I wanted to be... and I knew that she knew. Marlowe had just ripped the scab off that quiet ache, offering us a way out. A ticket, or a noose—it was bait, to lure us into something so obviously dangerous.

She gave a sharp, knowing nod, “we in.” I managed not to shout, my voice tight and low, forcing the words out but I only managed a “hmph,” enough to be polite, not enough to be pleased. Marlowe tipped his hat, already celebrating. He told her to come to the station and ask for Detective Marlowe. He tossed a few more bills onto the counter and left with a crooked smile.

Our shift ended late. We walked through the city under the pale glow of gaslight, quiet except for the distant jazz. No stars, just streetlamps tonight.

We reached the creaky front door of the bayou hideaway. I opened it, held it for a second, then spoke, my voice low and edged. “You just said yes.” She paused behind me, confirming that she had. “Didn’t even know the whole damn plan and you—what—just jumped at it?”

She stepped inside, brushing past me. “We need the money, Husk.”

“I know!” I snapped, closing the door harder than intended. “But that don’ mean we toss you out as bait?! That’s what he wants, Dee. You in danger, playing the part while he and his boys wait behind a wall and hoping you don’ die!”

She dropped her bag, arms folding. “I’m not stupid, Husk. I know what the role is.”

“I didn’t say you were!” I growled, pacing now, my hands tight fists at my sides. “But damn it—you didn’t even talk to me. We’re supposed to be a team, ain’t we?”

“We are,” she fired back, stepping toward me. “But this team is broke, tired, and barely surviving in a decade that wants nothing to do with either of us.”

“That ain’t worth your life! The money don’ mean nothin’ if you end up hurt—or worse! And we don’t even know who this creep even is yet,” I insisted.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, louder now. “I go out every night and get groped by hands that think they paid for me with tips and smiles. I smile, Husk, I smile! ‘Cause I have to, not ‘cause I want to. I want more. I just need more.”

I looked at her, truly looked, and her words carved something raw in my chest. I stepped forward, no longer angry, but scared. “I don’t like the thought of you gettin’ used like that,” I murmured. “I don’t like the thought of you gettin’ hurt.”

She froze, her shoulders stiffening, trying to speak my name. But I wasn't finished. “I like waking up next to you, alright? I like hearing your voice in the damn morning. I like the way you laugh at my bad jokes. I like… I like a lotta things. And I’m scared. I’m scared this plan’ll break everything. That it’ll break you…”

Her breath hitched. She turned away, needing space. “I know what I’m doing,” she whispered. “I’m not a doll. I’m not just some fragile thing you gotta shield. I’m my own person, Husk.”

The only sound for a long moment was the old wood creaking under the weight of emotion, asking softly, “You hate it here so much? Hate it with me?” She shook her head immediately, her eyes wide and slightly wet. “No. No, that’s not—Husk, I don’t hate being with you. I—”

“Don’t,” I cut her off, my voice rough, turning away and masking the hurt. “It’s fine. I get it. You miss your world. Your guy. Your normal. This here ain’t enough. Ain’t right.” I stepped out the door into the mist without turning back. “Get some rest, Dee. I need… I need some air.”

She watched me go, my broad silhouette fading into the fog.

I hadn’t had a drink in weeks, maybe months. Every day had been a battle, and I kept winning. For her. For Dolores. For a girl I half-kidded was mine and half-believed might be. I sat down at the bar, just for a moment, just to breathe and not think. I ordered one tiny pour, thinking it would stop the pain. This new life, this timeline? The best that could have happened to me… but only because I found her. The last few months were the best I had in a very, very long time.

But then he showed up.

A man dressed like a fever dream, vivid crimson and poisoned gold. A silhouette made for sin and theater. His voice was all smooth silk and enticing static. His eyes looked like they’d swallowed too much and spat out even more.

He dropped beside me like an old friend, all charm and venom. “Oh, what a night! What a divine little moment we’re living in. And what luck I find such a sullen face next to mine!” he cheered. I muttered something gruff and non-committal.

That first drink became seven. The stranger kept buying, kept pouring, kept laughing. His voice was a lullaby, his words a fog. “Come with me,” he whispered, his eyes glittering. “Let’s dance, sing! Tonight’s soaked in sin! Let’s be wicked, darling—what’s the point of pain when you can drown it in sweet release?”

I shook my head slowly, blinking back the haze. “I got someone waitin’. Back home” That truth hurt more than the liquor. I was saying it like she was really mine. The charming fella leaned closer, purring. “Don’t we all? Someone waitin’, someone watchin’? That’s the game, isn’t it? But we can still… have a little fun, no?” His smile was razor wire, crooked and sharp. I couldn’t move, couldn't tear away from the promise of forgetting, the warmth of not caring for just one night.

But I did care. “No,” I said, my voice like gravel. “Thanks for the night, but I gotta go. She’s probably thinkin’ I’m dead in a ditch. Or worse, that bayou freak got me.”

The man froze for a second, then his grin returned, wider, colder, hollowed out. “Well, well. Aren’t you a good boy.” He leaned back, swirling his glass. That eerie tune he’d hummed slithered back out, filling the air with cold eerie smoke. He didn’t try to stop me as I stood, dizzy but determined.

I turned, not looking back, not seeing the flicker of something hungry dying behind his eyes. He let out a breath—a dismissal. “Shame,” he said to no one. “Would’ve liked to hear how you scream.” He was forgotten as I staggered home, buzzed, confused, but still breathing. I had no idea how close I’d come to becoming a headline in some forgotten paper.

All I knew was that the bed would be cold. She might be mad, but I’d made it back. Because she was waiting, angry or not, she was there.

The door creaked as I stumbled inside, the floorboards groaning. I didn’t turn on a light; I knew the path now. Dolores sat up in bed, her silhouette etched in silver by the moonlight. “You were gone for hours,” she said, her voice low and sharp. “What the hell, Husk?”

I groaned, my boots thudding to the ground as I shrugged off my coat. “Didn’t drown. Didn’t get stabbed. Didn’t even take the offer that was thrown my way. Thought I deserved a damn medal.”

“What offer?” she asked as I dropped onto the bed beside her, voice slurring. “A real sweet setup. Company, drinks, a pretty face tryin’ to make me forget who I am.” I turned to face her, emotions burning underneath my barely open eyes. “Told ‘em no. Told ‘em I had someone waitin’ for me.”

She blinked, confused that a pretty face just offered. “Wasn’t exactly normal, no,” I snorted. “Whole night felt off. Like somethin’ watching from the dark.” I waved a hand, already fading. “Forget it.” My head dropped heavily onto the pillow, the sudden stillness a profound relief. My breathing slowed, my body stilled. I was already asleep.

The morning sun filtered through the slats of the windows, casting long, dusty rays across the floor. The air was thick with unspoken words. She stood by the makeshift stove, flipping slices of bread. “Toast's ready,” she said, her voice flat. “Thanks,” I mumbled, deliberately avoiding her gaze. We ate in silence. After breakfast, I grabbed my coat. “Gotta head to the docks, let the boss know I won't be in today,” I said, not waiting for a response.

At the docks, my boss scowled and told me not to bother coming back if I missed a shift. “Will do,” I told him, turning away, letting the door close on that life. I was interested in a job in the bakery anyway.

Back at the house, she waited by the door. We exchanged a brief glance before heading out together, the silence stretching with each step.

The police station loomed ahead. Inside, we approached the receptionist, who directed us to the second door on the left. We walked down the corridor. I hesitated for a moment before knocking. “Come in,” a voice called, and we entered Marlowe’s office together.

Marlowe leaned back in his creaking chair, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Well then,” he said, “Thanks for cooperating. I’ll cut the sweet talk—we all know what this is. Dolores, I want to use you as bait.” We didn’t flinch, because we already knew.

She made a show of raising her brow. “You mean to say the plan is to dangle me in front of him like a shiny thing and hope he bites? Real original, Marlowe.” The detective smirked, claiming the target chases the best-looking girl like instinct; he “has to win”. She laughed. “That sounds a hell of a lot more like a jealous streak than a criminal profile,” she answered. I scoffed and nodded. “She’s not wrong.”

Marlowe ignored us, claiming the man was polished, charming, polite, but had something twisted underneath. She was halfway out of her seat, “fine. Where do we meet him? Easy money. Might as well start now, right?” The readiness in her voice was a physical punch. But I caught her wrist. My grip was gentle but firm. “Sit down, sweetheart. Just—listen. This isn’t a game.” Her gaze dropped to my callous, warm hand covering hers. And I could not help but hope her heart yearned as much as mine did.

Everything went smooth, up until she repeated the name, her voice softly shaking, “A-Alastor?”

Marlowe noticed her fear immediately. He studied her face; the color drained from it. “You look like you just saw the devil himself.”

She tried to ease back into her seat, asking if he meant ‘the Alastor’, the one with the radio show while her fingers nervously drummed on the table. She had warned me about him, the cold, calculating nature of the radio demon. The monster reigned in this timeline… and now he would be drooling all over my girl? But if that demon in red was caught, she might finally breathe easier…? Maybe even-no, no I had to stop thinking like that! Push my hopes down!

I let out a weary sigh, my voice rough like gravel. “Alright. Spill it. How? When? Everything you got.” She kept her eyes steady, calculating. We needed a plan. We needed the money. And I knew—no matter the cost—that bringing down a serial killer like Alastor would be a win-win.

And I was in no position to stop her, even though my heart clenched and cried because she was taking such a huge risk, and I could potentially lose her. I knew the money was meaningless if she ended up hurt, or worse. What could I do? As much as it hurt me, she was right. Our team was broke and tired. This couldn't go on like this. All the pretending had to end, along with her constant shivering in fear that I would be murdered by that very man we three were trying to lure into the light.

Chapter Text

My gaze locked onto her, still perched on the edge of the bed like a bird caught in a cage. Defeat screamed in her posture; discomfort confessed in her shoulders. Poor dear. The game had only just begun.

I began to move, taking slow steps, circling the small patch of floor between the bed and the door. My shadow stretched and shrank against the peeling walls like a restless beast. The worn rug offered little sound beneath my polished shoes, allowing only the faintest whisper—a deliberate rhythm that filled the silence left by that clumsy exit. Marlowe, always smelling like desperation and damp wool, and the pressman, a vulture with a camera eye. How dare they use her? How dare they think she was merely a tool?

She was the prize. A riddle! The untouched stage. She hadn't flinched when I named their pathetic ploy, nor had she tried to hide the two dolts squeezed into a cupboard like overgrown children playing hide-and-seek. No. She’d just watched me, like a dangerous animal in the center ring, waiting for something to snap.

I tracked her with my eyes. She carried the weight of their schemes, and she appeared frayed. I had told them as much, true, partly. The tension coiled in her neck like a string pulled too tight. But ‘fraying’ implies breaking, and I didn't think she was quite there. Not yet. Something feline purred beneath her skin, something watching me back.

Yes…

She lowered her head, a curtain falling over the exquisite conflict in her face. Hiding. As if that could ever work against me. She knew something. Something about her tasted too sharp, too knowing. Marlowe’s smug reveal earlier, the meaning of my name, whispered from her lips echoed in my mind like a challenge. If she hadn’t just known of me, the radio man. Seemed like she knew me… my oh my, this was better than any broadcast!

I stopped my circling, drawing closer, letting the air hum with anticipation. The floorboards creaked beneath my knees as I sank down before her, bringing myself to her level. Eye-to-eye, predator to… whatever she intended to be. Her legs, clad in exquisite cloth, likely orchestrated by Marlowe? Pressed together instantly, a tiny, frantic, defensive gesture. A child hiding her hands after stealing a sweet.

My chuckle dripped through the room, dark as molasses, sweet as rot. It was soft, just for her, a private joke between us and the shadows. "Ah, darling," I murmured, my voice low, silk brushing against stone. "No need for such… modesty. Not with me."

Her head lifted slowly, eyes wide, like a hunted doe caught in the lamplight. Yet her eyes held no pleas, only wariness. "They've gone," I noted, tilting my head, smile fixed. "Your dramatic play, their clumsy reveal. Quite the production. Did you direct it yourself? Or was it Marlowe’s inspired artistry?"

She didn't speak, only watched me. Her breath was shallow, but her hands remained steady in her lap, just above those deliciously pressed-tight knees. "Such silence," I prompted, a thread of velvet-wrapped steel woven into my tone. "After such eloquent performances, both on the radio and… in this rather quaint little theatre." My eyes flickered towards the cupboard the detective had occupied. "One might think you'd have a monologue prepared for our final act?"

Still nothing.

"No?" I hummed, tracing the lines of my pressed trousers with a fingertip. "A shame. I find words so… illuminating. Especially those whispered in confidence, or those tossed out like breadcrumbs for a hungry wolf." My gaze sharpened, meeting hers directly. "Tell me, little swan. What precisely did you intend by teaching Detective Marlowe the meaning of my name?"

Her lips parted, a soft intake of breath. She finally spoke, her voice low, a little shaky at the edges. "I… I didn't." Ah. A sweet lie then. I gave a soft, private chuckle, letting it vibrate low in my chest. Marlowe, the fox-faced bastard, threw that meaning into the conversation like bait, a pebble to watch the ripples. How amusing he thought it, what a child.

She gathered herself, piecing together a fragile shield of old lace and sharper wit. "Look, Mr. Radio Demon," she said, her voice gaining a tremor of resolve, though her eyes remained wide with the knowledge of the monster before her, making me itch to know to what degree. "My part is done. I followed instructions. I want to go back. To my boyfriend. It's been... a less than pleasant night."

My smile remained fixed. Slowly, tenderly, I raised a single finger, placing it lightly upon her knee, preventing any thought of movement. "Ts ts ts," I purred, tilting my head, my smile sharpening, gleaming slightly up at her. "No can do, my little swan. You see… I know you know something. And it would be terribly rude… for you not to share? No?"

She gulped, her throat bobbing. Her gaze, those eyes that dared see through me, held defiance now, a spark igniting in their depths. "What now, then?" she challenged, voice surprisingly steady. "What's in it for me, hm?"

Oh, that wicked woman! Defiance, wit, those eyes! What she did to me felt wild! My finger, still resting lightly on her knee, began a slow, deliberate circle across the cloth. "What's in it for you…?" I mused, the words a silken thread unwinding. "Perhaps… a little game? Or maybe… a deal?"

She raised one eyebrow. Her hands shifted, fingers twitching near the hem of her dress. She, or maybe Marlowe provided this outfit, certainly knew my type. The neck high dress cut shorter than propriety demanded, clinging to the curve of her thigh. And those lacey socks? Peeking just above sensible shoes and going right under that dress. Oh, darling. Naughty. Making me imagine red lace, a garter belt, things a man like me could simply—No! Not now, control, Alastor. The game required focus, not fantasy.

Her sweet mouth parted, preparing to speak. I bit softly down on the inside of my cheek, holding her gaze, waiting. “I won’t sell my soul to the likes of you,” she said, her voice firm, cutting through the air like cold glass.

A soft, disbelieving sound that tasted like rust and amusement left my vocals. “A soul? Darling, can you even sell that?” I tilted my head. “Oh, what a woman!” My voice dropped lower. “Tell me, why call me the Radio Demon? Why not use my name, hm?” My gaze lingered on her lips, a silent promise. “I know it sounds like carnage sin when spoken with your wicked tongue.”

She scoffed, what a small defiant sound. “None of your business.” And I let it slide, for now. Let her call me what she wished. In the end I would have her, and my name would be sticking to her lips like glue.

A chuckle slipped from my lips. “A game it is then, my dear.” My smile widened, a predator sizing its mark. “Are you, perhaps, familiar with ‘Twenty Questions’?”

“Why play such a childish game?” she countered. She wanted to get away from the edge of this particular forest. “I’d rather be out of here. And if you don’t mind being an actual gentleman and read the room?” Her voice took on a clipped, impatient edge. “Let me leave, perhaps?”

My laughter spilled out, dark and sudden. My smile stretched razor-sharp, wider than comfort allowed, teeth gleaming in the low light. My body language alone should tell her all she needed to know, the stillness in my frame, the intensity in my eyes. I wanted the information, and I will have it.

A subtle shift in her posture… acceptance, perhaps? A flicker of resignation in those defiant eyes. “Fine,” she said, exhaling slowly. “Make it five, or so. So, I won’t be here longer than I must.”

“Splendid!” I declared, the word bright and sharp, laced with theatrical cheer. “Five are more than enough!” She wanted to pull away, her body leaning a fraction, yet she stayed, anchored by her own sharp curiosity. Such a smart little thing she was.

Her eyes met mine again, cooler now, calculating. Getting ready to play, huh? “So?” she began, voice steady. “What are the rules? The tiny stuff that’s written, hm? The stuff no one reads. Tell me, and then I will play.”

Oh? A woman after my own twisted heart. She understands the fine print, the hidden clauses whispered between lines. She grasps the concept of rules meant to be discovered, not declared. She sees the strings before they are pulled. Very, very smart indeed. A shame, if she is a threat.

“Ah, yes, the fine print,” I purred, leaning forward just a fraction, my voice dropping to a low, confidential murmur. “It’s quite simple, really. You may ask me anything you wish. Anything at all.” I let the silence stretch for a beat, allowing the weight of 'anything' to settle. “But I,” my smile widened, sharp and full of teeth, “can only answer with ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.”

I paused, letting the rhythm of my voice sink into her. “Every time you guess correctly, every time my answer is ‘right’, a little piece of you gets to leave". My gaze swept down her form. "A step closer to the door. A secret kept. A breath that is entirely your own." I drew back slightly, eyes gleaming. “Bit. By. Bit.”

My voice dropped lower still, the humor replaced by something darker, thicker, like warmed blood. “But.” I tilted my head, watching her face. “If your guess is… ‘wrong’…” The word hung in the air, a soft, damning pronouncement. “Oh, my sweet little thing…” My grin became a promise, slow and unfolding. “A piece of me gets to keep a piece of you.”

I watched her, waiting. Anticipation coiled tightly in my gut. Her breath hitched, barely perceptible. Another faint blush bloomed high on her cheeks, a fragile, fleeting splash of color. I craved more. Craved her voice catching, cracking, her sweet mouth curling around screaming my name! God, this woman has a number on me, hasn’t she? I just had to have her. The game was merely the preamble to the inevitable conclusion I desired.

“Do you understand what I’m implying, my dear?” I pressed softly; my voice laced with silken threat and a hunger I no longer bothered to conceal. “What it means?”

Her eyes flickered down, then met mine again. There was a trace of confusion in their depths, a hint that perhaps she still believed I wasn’t into… that stuff. I could always show her, if she agreed. “I… I understand,” she said, her voice quiet.

She did, she agreed! Knowing full well what I wanted. My smile turned sinister, a private victory. I salivated immediately. The game was already over before it began in that regard. All that remained was the delicious unfolding and getting to know what she knew… my curiosity stretched, a hungry beast stirring in its cage. Oh, how I longed to press my claws into her soft thighs!

She lifted her chin a fraction. Her voice, when she spoke again, carried a new weight. It was a statement, presented for confirmation. As if she already held the answer. “You like to reveal things, don’t you?” she murmured. “Listen to their screams as you… take their lives, no?”

The air thickened, pulled taut around us. My heart hammered against my ribs. She knew. She connected the dots? The woman! The very first that saw me, and a magnificent threat. But, how…?

A low, dark chuckle rumbled in my chest. She wasn't wrong. But I could not give her that truth, not here. Not with the ghost of Marlowe's suspicion lingering. Prison. Or worse, the chair. That would not do at all. I allowed my smile to soften, a carefully constructed facade. “Wrong,” I purred, the word rolling off my tongue like poison-laced honey.

Her brow furrowed, a delightful ripple of confusion crossing her features. My chuckle deepened, a conspiratorial sound. “I will be so generous as to say,” I continued, lowering my voice, “I also adore my name screamed in pure lust by a woman beneath me.” Her eyes widened, shocked. A delicate gasp escaped her lips. Ah, wonderful, give me more.

Taking my time, I reached out, my movements slow, savoring the anticipation. One finger, cool and precise, traced the edge of her dress, finding the warm skin just beneath the hem. I applied the slightest pressure, pushing against the inside of her leg. Slowly. Just enough to nudge her knees apart, inch by agonizing inch.

She flinched, a tiny tremor running through her frame. Her hands flew down, pushing the fabric of her dress forward, a futile screen against my encroaching gaze. No rush, I told myself. Soon… and I will know the color.

Her voice, a low, confident current, cut through the anticipation. “But… I was right,” she stated, her eyes fixed on mine. “No?”

My head tilted. A soft, private laugh bubbled low in my chest. “Hm?” I hummed. “Do you wish to waste a question upon such a triviality, darling? So soon?”

“No,” she whispered, her gaze never wavering. “Forget it.” What I am currently forgetting is the question how she knew… but first things first.

“Ah,” I purred, letting my touch deepen ever so slightly, kneading the sensitive skin behind her knee though her stockings. “Very well. What else occupies that fascinating mind? I am, as you say, all ears.”

Her dress was pushed mid-thigh now, hiked towards the delicious secrecy of her upper leg. It created a perfect, tantalizing frame. A glimpse of darker fabric just at the edge, a whisper of lace maybe? My fingers twitched with hungry speculation, such a delightful tease. Enough to make me wait, drag my questions to the back of my head.

Her hand moved, finding my chin. She tilted my face slightly upward, her touch firm, almost possessive. “My face,” she murmured, “is up here.” Genuine amusement flickering in my eyes. “My apologies, darling,” I said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “You have my undivided attention. Pray, do go on.”

She pulled her hand back, letting my chin drop. “I need time,” she said, her eyes snapping back, sharp and steady. Good, I thought. She was not merely trying to escape this awkward tableau; she sought something specific, Proof. Confirmation of the shadows she glimpsed behind the smile. That desire for answers, coupled with her carefully deployed bait, it screamed of little ears, eager to catch a confession. I needed caution. Precision. A dance floor scattered with landmines.

Her gaze, sharp as cut glass, held mine. She leaned forward, voice dropping low. “Do you find the silence of the bayou… conducive to your particular brand of performance?”

Performance? An intriguing choice of words. She was seeking confession without uttering accusation directly. She angled it, hoping I might stumble, reveal the blood beneath the silk. She meant Conducive to the work of taking a life. And I couldn't ask her how she knew without revealing it, fuck, this is turning me on.

A smile played on my lips, slow and knowing. My hand remained resting lightly on her knee. “My dear,” I purred, tilting my head, “are you suggesting my broadcasts gain a certain… je ne sais quoi… when composed amidst the cypress trees? A touch of the wild, perhaps? Or,” I leaned closer, voice a conspiratorial whisper, “do you find the whispers of the city too loud to appreciate a truly inspired… performance?”

“You’re twisting my words!” she breathed, a protest laced with genuine surprise. “That isn’t fair!”

“Fairness, darling, is a concept best left to children and lawyers,” I countered, my grin stretching. “Again, wrong, my dear.” I lifted the finger of my free hand to my lips. “Psst,” I whispered, a gesture for secrets held close.

All the while, my hand slid down to her ankle. I undid the strap of her shoe with a deliberate movement, pulling it free. It landed softly on the floor, a quiet thud. I released her foot, then reached for the second. Another strap released, another shoe removed.

Thud.

Two sweet notes, promising the delicious warmth still held beneath that taunting fabric. My hand returned to her knee. I shifted, lifting her other leg slightly, just enough to angle her thigh upward, allowing me to gaze up and still meet her eyes. Her breath hitched as she watched me, mouth slightly agape.

Slowly, deliberately, my nose traced a path along the delicate curve of her inner calf, upwards, towards her knee. The scent of her, faint and intoxicating, filled my senses. I paused just below the sensitive hollow behind the joint, savoring the heightened tension. Pressing a soft, tender kiss to the back of her knee. I held it there for a lingering moment, my cheek resting against her leg, allowing her thigh to settle on my shoulder. A fierce heat bloomed within me, a raw, clawing hunger. The risk pulsed through the air like a second heartbeat. No. Not here. Not now… it was too reckless to take her. Too reckless to confront her in any way.

But the exquisite sight of her blush, rising like dawn across her throat and cheeks, a mirror to the fire raging in my own gut, offered a different promise. She was affected. Just as intensely, just as deliciously, as I. Perfect, I would make her weep for more… in her dreams yet to come.

A subtle tremor ran through her. Her muscles coiled, a quiet resistance. She tested the weight of my hand on her knee. Yet her eyes, those magnificent, determined pools of color, held mine, unflinching. She leaned backward, bracing herself on the mattress, creating distance. Her other hand flew back to her dress, pressing it down, a defensive barrier against the fabric now hiked mercilessly high. The material bunched, emphasizing rather than concealing. I held still, nose close to the warmed skin. A faint aroma ghosted upward, something subtle, elusive. I breathed it in, feeling the edge of hunger that proximity only sharpened.

Her throat bobbed. She swallowed. Her voice, low and tight, offered a question cast into the charged air. “Is your favorite dish… jambalaya?”

My hand paused on her knee. My brow lifted. Jambalaya? Yes. Undeniably. But… how in God’s name…?

The question hung in the silence. First, she knew my drink. Now, my appetite away from the microphone and screams? How? Just how did she know?!

The pieces clicked into a chilling, elegant pattern. Not intuition. Not luck. This spoke of intent. Of stalking with the quiet grace of a shadow. She must be watching me, gathering crumbs dropped when I thought no one would listen. A perfect little spy, then. But a spy truly unseen wouldn’t offer such obvious gifts… this felt like information given.

Unless… unless she wasn't truly free? She danced like a puppet, offering secrets like tribute. A deal with Marlowe? He saw her spark and offered her a way out? Or perhaps… leverage. Something held over her head, or over the brute called Husk perhaps? That was highly plausible. Marlowe set the stage, nudged her into this role. She was the bait, yes, but perhaps unwillingly. Her desire to ‘leave’ pointed to someone playing a part under duress. But the detective would demand proof.

My fingers lingered on her leg. My touch lightened, withdrawing slowly, deliberately and regrettable, letting her leg settle gently back. I released her other foot as well, pulling away fully.

Her legs closed instantly, pressing together with a tiny, frantic, defensive gesture. I remained kneeling, hands resting lightly on her ankles, thumbs circling the thin bone beneath the fabric. I tilted my head, attempting to rest it on her knees, drawn by the scent of her warmth.

Her hand shot out, flat against my forehead, firm. A clear boundary. “No,” she stated, pushing gently. “I earned this.”

A chuckle slipped from my lips. It tasted sweet and sour. “Sorry, darling,” I purred, laced with mock sincerity. “So, what’s your next little question, hm?” She looked at me, her mouth tightened. “Fuck off.” Her hand pressed harder against my brow.

My smile did not waver. “Ts ts ts,” I purred. “This is going too far within the game… and I thought you understood the rules?” My hand, still on her ankle, tightened fractionally. “We discussed the fine print. Every guess… consequences.”

“Get lost,” she flashed.

My head turned slightly, shifting under her hand. My mouth found the edge of her palm. I opened my mouth, gently, softly grazing, simulating a bite into her hand. She gasped; a tiny sound was lost in the air. Her hand jolted, snatching it away from my wet cavern.

I released her ankle but my smile remained fixed. I knew I did not really hurt her. Not without prompting. I would never… only if she begged for it. I tilted my head, voice dripping with mock concern. “Did I scratch, darling?” I purred. “I could kiss it better?”

She stared at me, rubbing her hand. “You’re a monster.”

Yes, darling. I am. And you know it somehow. I lowered myself further, bringing my front closer still to her legs. I draped myself forward, a loose, languid posture, until my hands came to rest on either side of her, finding purchase on the sheet. The crisp cotton was a poor substitute for the warmth I craved beneath it. Oh, I wanted to pull that sheet away and simply… consume. Lick, bite, taste her until her voice broke into pure, unadulterated screams, calling my name, again and again until the bed broke.

Her eyes widened in pure shock, fixed on mine. The small noises escaping her lips suggested my thoughts had escaped the confines of my skull. A low purr rumbled in my chest. “Not so sorry, darling,” I murmured, a silken apology for a trespass I fully intended to commit again. “So, what question dances on your tongue? Or perhaps…” my grin widened, showing more tooth, “perhaps I should define the rules of our little game? Bring my imagination a little closer to reality?”

I eyed her, savoring the vulnerability. The hunger gnawed, but I held back. I was collected; my actions stemmed from a refined appreciation, dark artistry.

A sound escaped her lips; a choked whisper edged with incredulity. “I can’t believe it… you… you like women? L-like that?!” A laugh erupted from me, bright and sharp. That was the confusion I sensed earlier. My blood-soaked reputation evidently contained certain… grey areas. “Yes, darling,” I said, the sound coated in velvet and undeniable truth. “Among other things.”

I pushed myself backward, away from the warmth of her legs, creating space. I let myself drop down onto the worn rug. My long legs extended before me, settling into a very open, relaxed criss-cross. A deliberate display, letting her see the undeniable effect she had wrought. A silent confession that her presence stirred something deep within me.

My eyes remained fixed upon her face, watching as her gaze inevitably fell. The posture of my legs spoke a language far older than words. Her blush deepened, a beautiful wave of crimson washing over her neck and cheeks, a response I savored like the finest wine. She absorbed the sight of my desire. A low, tuneless hum began in my throat.

“Only one question remains, my dear,” I purred, laced with anticipation. The game approached its precipice. I tilted my head, would she press? Would it be a question that scratched at the thin veil of my reputation, prodding at the edges of my darker, more… particular interests? Something that hinted at the little concerts I curated for the moon and the bayou creatures alone?

My gaze dropped, gesturing towards my state with amusement, before lifting to meet her eyes once more. All tied together, wasn’t it? My tastes. My hobbies. My current… state of being. A delightful knot of sin and sensation I wished to undo with her help.

Or, I began slowly, my voice a silken whisper, drawing her into the conspiracy, will you play it safe? Retreat from the edge of the woods she’d dared to tiptoe too close, little swan… and fly away yet again? The choice, darling, rested entirely with her.

A soft sound escaped her lips. “I… I have a boyfriend…” a fragile shield, followed by quiet distaste. “…this… this display sickens me.”

Ah. The boyfriend card... and sickening? Charming. I allowed my posture to become even more languid, leaning back now onto my forearms. “Husk, you mean?” My voice dropped, a silken ribbon unspooling. “My, my. And yet, you find yourself here. Lingering,” a short pause, “unless…” I let the suggestion hang in the air, “Perhaps you’d prefer your final question to be one that leads… with you on top?”

My smile sharpened. “If you prefer the view from that particular altitude, darling?” I allowed another low laugh, filled with a dark delight. “I wouldn’t mind it in the slightest. In fact,” My gaze swept down her form, “…I think it would suit you beautifully.” A queen on her throne.

Her blush intensified, a vibrant splash of crimson. Her eyes darted away. A subtle tremor began in her legs, pressed tight together.

She offered no question. Since the little swan found herself momentarily speechless, it was high time I made it exquisitely clear precisely what kind of vile images danced behind my pretty smile. She wanted to glimpse the truth beneath the charm? The man under the red pinstriped suit? Oh, I would show her.

Skin on skin. The thought unfurled, warm and intoxicating. Her thighs wet against mine as our bodies intertwined. I pictured leaning closer still, nibbling that delicate shell behind her ear. The sheer anticipation of it made my breath catch. The room grew warmer, making me drip with anticipation. Or... A darker, wilder possibility danced in my mind. I could claw at her hips, leaving marks, a silent claim. Bite her neck, not a kiss, but a sharp, possessive sink of teeth into soft flesh. I waited. I watched her hide her mouth behind her hand, a delightful attempt to shield herself from the sheer audacity of my internal monologue made external.

Before a sound could pass her lips, my posture shifted. I lowered myself further, crawling towards her with slow, deliberate movements, like a predator no longer needing to stalk. “Shhh, darling,” I whispered, the sound soft, intimate. “No talking now. Just muffled cries…” My gaze dropped, pausing on the space between her thighs. And as my eyes looked down and then up again to meet her wide, startled gaze, the invitation spilled from my lips, raw and irresistible “…as my tongue between—open wide, my dear swan… ride my face, let me feel you moan while I feast. Why won’t we both just lose control—don’t you want to hear me scream?” A shock. Sharp, clean, stinging against my cheek.

A slap.

It wasn't borne of brute force, but a sudden, frantic lashing out. It did not sting like flesh against flesh should. The impact registered like static, a peculiar disconnect. An… interesting reaction. For me to utter such raw, base suggestion felt crude, yes. And yet… something about her pulled me under. I merely let her pull me deeper.

Her voice erupted, roaring at me, raw and untamed. “Just because I’m a woman I’m automatically a bitch or what?” The words were spat, striking at the stale air of societal expectations. “Spreading my legs for vile man that just drool after women’s bodies!” “God, can’t a man for one single fucking time take a no as a no?? damn, Alastor!” My name, spoken like a curse, yet still honeyed with her unique inflection.

The cruel turn. “Just take a look at Husk!” She threw his name out like a challenge. “He doesn’t lay a hand on me,” she declared, softening fractionally. “Does not say such overly sexualized things and still is a very decent and good man!” Decent. Good. Husk. The brute. She held him up like a shield.

My smile wavered a bit, something shifted within. I rubbed my face, a gesture utterly out of character. I tilted my head, eyes narrowed, the smile now holding a new, analytical edge. “Husk does not touch you…?” I murmured, the question was a silken hook. I wanted to dissect it.

Her indignant cascade continued. “Yeah? Of course not,” she declared, sharp with disbelief. “He ain’t my boyfriend, why should he, duh? Ugh… society is such a hassle!” I raised an eyebrow at that. “Because you have a dick means everybody has to suck it, eh?” I watched her, fascinated by the raw display, a creature of pure, glorious disruption.

A low sound built in my chest. “Husk isn’t your boyfriend…?” I murmured, laced with knowing amusement. I let the pause stretch. “Then who is?”

She stopped dead. The color drained from her face. Her eyes, wide and fixed on mine, held the dawning awareness of a misstep, a secret accidentally unfurled.

A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Something she had not meant to offer. A low sound in my chest burst forth. I laughed. Wholeheartedly. My shoulders shook, a peculiar sensation, delightful. I pushed myself languidly from the floor.

She watched me, her mouth held open before closing again without a sound. "Ah, my sweet, sweet little lying swan," I murmured, the laughter still bubbling beneath my voice. "You still have one question remaining, you know?"

Her eyes narrowed. The confusion hardened into defiance. She snatched a pillow from the bed, tangible fury in her grasp, and hurled it at me. Before she turned, she grabbed her shoes and fled, full of this delicious chaos she herself had invited.

I caught the pillow with easy grace. It held the faint scent of her. I squeezed it tenderly. I did not pursue. Instead, I laughed after her, the sound following her retreating footsteps.

My cheeks ached, stretched wide by unadulterated delight. For once, the carefully constructed facade slipped. She had made me truly smile, a smile that reached my eyes, pushing the mask aside to reveal… just me.

"You did it," I breathed into the empty air. "You made me drop the façade! I'm finally bare…!"

Her quick steps faded. The distinct sound of the front door shutting closed echoed faintly, a final punctuation mark. Oh, what a wicked, and cruel woman. A creature of fascinating contradictions. A very free and pretending woman she was, without a boyfriend to anchor her, to claim her.