Chapter Text
Alastor moved mechanically, going through the steps he'd learned by observing, listening, piecing together what women seemed to enjoy—the occasional passionate kiss, lingering touches, the whispered assurances of her beauty. His body responded well enough; it always did. It was a matter of instinct more than enjoyment, a biological urge he could satisfy, though it never brought him closer to satisfaction.
Her hands clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she moaned, her voice high and fervent, crying his name again and again. "Alastor… Alastor, please… harder!" The repetition of it grated on him in a way he couldn't quite explain. Please, he thought with an edge of irritation. She didn’t even know who she was begging for.
He dipped his head, feigning passion, pressing his lips to her collarbone, grazing her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin under his mouth. It should have thrilled him, should have kindled that wildness he saw in others. But he felt it in a detached sort of way, as though he were simply doing what was required. A performance. An act that he had to get right.
Her voice rose again, whining his name, pleading and gasping, her body arching against his, demanding more from him, taking everything he could offer. Such drama, he thought wryly, almost letting the slightest smirk show. He suppressed a sigh, feeling his mind drift, carried elsewhere on a tide of impatience. He’d heard people describe this moment as transcendent, an escape from reality. But he was the same Alastor here as he was in any dark corner of New Orleans—except here, he was indulging someone else’s illusion.
He focused on his movements, adjusting to what he thought would elicit the loudest cries, the sharpest breaths. The woman’s voice climbed to a feverish pitch, her hands sliding through his hair, her nails scratching at his back. Does she realize how predictable she is? The thought was equal parts amusement and annoyance, and he almost chuckled, a wry smile edging at his lips as he kept up his rhythm, dutiful, disciplined.
"Alastor…oh, Alastor!"
A bright smile spread across his face, breaking through the tedium as a dark fantasy unfurled before him, rich and intoxicating. The Radio host imagined slipping his hand over her mouth, forcing her lips open, pressing two fingers deep into her mouth, feeling her warm, wet tongue writhe under his touch as she tried to cry out. While his other hand would wrap around her throat, tightening slowly, savoring every beat, every panicked gasp as he drained the air from her, as if coaxing the very life out of her bit by bit.
In his mind, he leaned down, nose to nose, eyes locked on hers as her thrashing grew desperate, frantic, watching her fear build, a flicker of her humanity finally surfacing in place of that hollow pleasure. The idea pulsed through him, potent and alive, stirring something deeper than any of these empty, mechanical thrusts had. Imagining that he could see the light in her eyes dimming as his patience with this charade wore thin, and the thought sent a thrill through his body, hard and hot.
Now, wouldn’t that be quiet, he thought, lips curving in pure delight.
When the woman finally cried out, a last, breathless moan tearing from her lips, he exhaled sharply, more in relief than anything else. Her chest rose and fell, heaving and spent, eyes glazed and unfocused as she looked at Alastor with something bordering on reverence. A soft smile played on his lips as he watched her, though it was only half an act.
The fantasy in his mind had been so delicious, vivid enough to bring him nearly to the edge himself—a rarity he hadn’t anticipated. If the wretched thing hadn’t finished so soon, he might have, for once, felt the actual thrill of release into someone other than his own hands. But perhaps it was just as well. A satisfied sigh escaped him as he thought about it; at least this way, he couldn’t get her pregnant—an unintended benefit to this tedious little exercise.
“Goodness, aren’t you a marvel,” he murmured with a wink, though the words tasted false on his tongue. She giggled, a bit shy now, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction—her enjoyment confirmed, expectations met. And yet, for all the effort, he felt none of the peace he’d expected. None of that sweet bliss everyone promised came with intimacy.
She looked at him with a sleepy, dazed adoration that made his skin prickle, her fingers trailing down his chest as if she owned him. He wanted to pull back, extricate himself, but instead he let her linger, let her soak in her own fantasies of romance and satisfaction.
When she finally drifted off, he lay beside her, his mind far away, eyes tracing patterns on the ceiling.
He felt as hollow as he had before.
Alastor lay there, feeling the soft caress of her fingers gliding over his skin, tracing lines of affection that felt utterly foreign to him. She whispered sweet nothings, her voice like honey, dripping with intimacy and longing. Yet, the words washed over him like a gentle tide, never quite reaching the shore of his consciousness. He had heard them all before, had played the part well enough to convince others—and himself—that this was what he wanted. But with each loving touch, he felt his desire slowly fade, evaporating like mist in the morning sun.
She was nothing more than an alibi, a temporary distraction in a life filled with obligations and expectations. It was a performance—one he had rehearsed countless times to maintain the face he wore for the world. No one could suspect that Alastor, the charming radio host, danced to a different tune in the shadows. He couldn’t risk the curious glances of police officers or the probing questions of those cute, naive detectives who might think they had him figured out. What would his mother say if she knew? The very thought churned in his stomach, bitter and sharp. She would be heartbroken, of course—heartbroken that her son couldn’t find “the one” for life, as if he needed someone else to complete him.
But beneath the surface of that thought lay a deeper resentment. The ache of loneliness expanded within him, amplifying the emptiness he could never quite articulate. Each affectionate whisper, each gentle caress, only served to highlight how hollow he truly felt, as if the woman beside him was merely a band-aid over a wound that refused to heal.
Feeling dirty, tainted by the intimacy that now felt so mundane and unfulfilling, Alastor shifted slightly away from her touch. “I think I’ll head home now,” he said, forcing the words out with a practiced smile that felt more like a mask than anything genuine.
The woman looked up at him, disappointment flickering in her eyes, but he didn’t wait for her response. He slipped from the sheets, dressing quickly, every piece of clothing a reminder of the façade he maintained. As he turned away, he felt the weight of her gaze on him, but it barely registered. He was already lost in thought, plagued by that ever-expanding void inside, knowing that this would be another meaningless encounter, another step further away from understanding who he really was.
Stepping out into the cool night air of New Orleans, he took a deep breath, but it did little to clear the darkness swirling in his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was simply going through the motions—an actor on a stage, playing a role that had long since lost its charm. And as he walked through the dimly lit streets, he felt the weight of his own loneliness pressing down harder than ever, a constant reminder that the more he searched for connection, the more elusive it seemed to become.
Alastor knew he had been a tad bit rude to that poor lady, but frankly, he didn’t care. This was always the same old routine—just another face whose body he drilled into like an unfeeling machine. He gripped at his chest, a slight wonder sparking within him: was that really all he was? A machine masquerading as a human being?
“Oh, Mom, do I disappoint you?” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he looked up at the sky. His hand trembled against his chest; the weight of his own thoughts heavy on his heart. He searched the clouds, hoping for a glimpse of her, longing for her to look down at him and grace him once more with her bright smile, her warmth, her love and protection.
Tears threatened to fall, but he pushed them aside. No, he had to be a respectable figure, in control of everything, the charming host who could sweep anyone off their feet with a single smile. He loved that, without a doubt. But right now? Right now, he just wanted to feel her wrap her arms around him, to hear her soothing voice tell him that he was enough—that he was a human being, not some strange thing tossed into the air a dozen times, only to be dropped again and again, always falling and breaking as it hit the ground.
With a sigh, he composed himself, forcing the smile back into place as he strolled home, watching with mild interest as the familiar houses slowly faded into trees. He lived a little bit outside of town, just past a small forest that held fond memories of his childhood. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter from days spent playing hide and seek among the trees, those innocent moments where the weight of the world felt far away, and joy came as easily as breathing.
As he walked, the chill of the evening air nipped at his skin, a reminder of his solitude. Each step felt heavy, and the tranquility of the forest loomed ahead, a contrast to the restlessness that stirred within him. The shadows of the trees danced, and he found himself wishing he could slip back into that simpler time, where being alive didn’t feel like an act.
Now, as a young adult, he sought fulfillment in other ways—like cleaning the filth from the cobblestones of his city. And with filth, he meant those who thought themselves above the fear of consequence, the despicable wretched dogs that called themselves men! He had spent the last few days gathering information on one particular lowlife—Mr. Miller, who paraded as a gentleman in the streets but was a truly awful pig behind closed doors.
The thought of Miller filled him with righteous fury. Beating his wife and kids, leaving bruises and broken bones in his wake, he was a coward hiding beneath a veneer of respectability. Oh, he would burn! Alastor’s mind raced with plans of retribution, and slowly, as those darker thoughts began to fill the void within him, he felt his shoulders lift, his posture more open, more confident. The defeated form he had been carrying dissipated, replaced by a wicked grin that spread across his lips, his tongue tracing the edge of it in anticipation.
For the first time that night, he felt alive, the edges of his emptiness blurring with purpose and pride… ready to cleanse the city of its sins, one detestable soul at a time.
Mr. Miller will be his third.
Alastor opened the door to his too big and empty house, the familiar silence greeting him like an old friend. No one was there to welcome him home—only the shadows he had grown accustomed to, wrapping around him in their cold tendrils as he stripped himself of his coat and shoes. With a heavy sigh, his feet dragged him toward the bathroom, a place where he could shed not just his clothes but the weight of the world that felt so heavy on his shoulders.
He eased each button of his vest loose, his fingers moving with a practiced grace, the rhythm branded into his fingertips. Laying the vest neatly on a chair, which had become a dedicated perch for his discarded clothing, he felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction. Next came the buttons of his shirt, the fabric parting easily under his touch. He worked slowly but steadily, watching his fingers with a detached curiosity as they danced across the familiar terrain, recalling the countless women he had undressed in similar settings. Some had even dressed afterward, pretending that their little escapades had been about more than mere physical release.
As he peeled the shirt from his shoulders, a few red marks came into view—wild, angry reminders of a passion he never truly felt. He wondered if other men would be envious; after all, he got cunt like there were fish in the water—plenty. A laugh bubbled up from his chest, feeling shallow and hollow, but he allowed it to escape. He let the shirt sink down, each arm slipping free, making it seem as if he were seducing the showerhead, preparing for a more personal moment.
Finally free of the fabric, he folded the shirt and laid it on top of his vest, trying to catch a glimpse of his back in the mirror. The angry marks seemed to mock him, each one a testament to the encounters that had left him feeling emptier than satisfied. Huffing in irritation, he rewound to the little private show he had just begun, trying to ignite a spark of something—anything—to break through the dull numbness that crawled at his insides. The flicker of darker thoughts about murder piped up in his mind, but he quickly shoved them aside. This wasn’t the time nor the place for that; he wouldn’t disrespect her memory by indulging in violent fantasies in this house!
No, he needed to refocus on his trousers, looking down as his eyebrows furrowed together in irritation. Did he not think of himself as attractive? Surely, he was rather sexy, wasn’t he? As Alastor scrutinized himself in the full-body mirror, his hands resting on his trousers, fingers tracing the fabric while his eyes wandered over every exposed inch of his body. He started with his hair—soft, brown, and wavy, with just a few strands out of place, giving him a bedhead look that added to his appeal.
His gaze shifted to his large round glasses, which framed his face just right. The lenses caught the light, making his rich chocolate eyes pop with unexpected brilliance. He stared back at himself, allowing a smile to widen on his lips—ah, his smile, his best weapon and shield. It was disarming, enchanting, capable of coaxing the most guarded souls into vulnerability.
As his eyes wandered lower, he tilted his head to one side, assessing the curve of his neck. It looked absolutely biteable in this moment, enticing, as if it were a delicacy served on a platter, ready to be devoured. The thought sent a thrill through him, a flicker of a fantasy he often entertained but couldn’t act upon.
His hands moved to his chest, fingers tracing the outline of his lean, albeit not overly muscled, physique. He wasn’t burdened with a six-pack or bulging biceps; rather, he was thin, almost fragile, with skin stretched taut over delicate muscle. He could feel himself hugging his own body. His eyes followed the path from his nipples down to his belly, a small swell of satisfaction bubbling up within him.
He wasn’t unattractive, not in the slightest.
Yet, as he stood there, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Why couldn’t he really feel himself right now, in his solitude? Why couldn’t he just accept this body, this vessel he inhabited? Perhaps it was because it was flawed; the thought crept into his mind like another voice, echoing with a harshness that made his smile falter.
With a scowl, he glared at his own reflection, the intensity of his gaze unyielding. "This is so stupid," he muttered, frustration bubbling to the surface as his hands went up to cup his face, the warmth of his palms contrasting sharply with the cold doubt gnawing at his insides.
But as quickly as that surge of anger rose, it fell away, his hands dropping just as his gaze did. He couldn’t keep doing this to himself—this endless cycle of self-criticism and dismissal.
He took a deep breath, shaking his head as if to dispel the clouds of self-doubt swirling around him. "Get a grip, Alastor," he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. All he wanted was to feel good for a few seconds and then go to bed, goddamn it! How was this so hard?
Oh, maybe it was because you aren’t getting anything near hard, Mr. Perfect, that insidious voice chimed in again, gnawing at him with relentless persistence. He grit his teeth, annoyance bubbling up as he unbuttoned his trousers without ceremony, the fabric falling away as he shoved them onto the chair—well, somewhere near it; he didn’t care right now.
Next, he kicked off his socks, the feeling of freedom flooding him momentarily, but it was short-lived. He inhaled sharply, stilling for a moment as he faced the final barrier: his boxers, the last thing shielding him from himself. The desire not to see 'it'—to avoid confronting that part of himself—was overwhelming. He felt a familiar tension coiling within him, a blend of shame and irritation that threatened to crush him.
With a resigned sigh, he closed his eyes and stripped himself fully, the fabric sliding off his skin like a second layer of armor he wished to wear longer. He stepped out of his underwear, feeling the cool air wrap around him, invigorating and slightly terrifying. It was a reminder of his vulnerability, and the thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Reopening his eyes, he moved cautiously toward the shower, the tiles beneath his feet a reminder to watch his step. He turned on the water, letting the steam fill the space around him, thick and warm. As the water cascaded down, he let it wash over him, hoping it would carry away some of the weight that clung to his skin like a second layer of grime.
For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation, feeling the warmth seep into his muscles, coaxing some tension from them. He tilted his head back, letting the water flow over his face, momentarily blinding him to the world outside. In those fleeting moments, he could pretend everything was okay, that he was just a man enjoying a hot shower, rather than a complex web of desires, insecurities, and dark but beautiful fantasies.
Alastor sighed, feeling the tension melt away as he relaxed under the hot stream. He let his hands run through his hair, the water cascading down and pooling at his feet. Just then, he felt something… he had forgotten to put his glasses away. A chuckle escaped him, the sound mingling with the rush of water, a reminder of the small absurdities that punctuated his life.
Naked and dripping, he padded back to the little chair, the wetness of his feet making soft noises against the cool tiles. As he sat his glasses neatly on top of his clothes, he felt a brief flicker of normalcy, an anchor amidst the swirling chaos of his mind.
Returning to the shower, he stepped back under the hot stream, allowing the water to wash over him once more. His hands found their way back to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands as he added some shampoo, working it into a lather. The scent of the soap filled his nostrils, fresh and invigorating, as he massaged his scalp, feeling the pressure release with each circular motion.
As he lost himself in the rhythm of his actions, his throat played a slight tune, a soft hum that vibrated through his vocal cords. It was a quiet sound, just for him, a melody that seemed to resonate in the enclosed space of the bathroom. The simple act of washing away the dirt felt almost therapeutic, each droplet carrying with it a weight he didn’t even realize he had been shouldering.
For a few minutes, he allowed himself to be just a man in a shower, not the radio host or the bayou killer, but simply Alastor—a being deserving of a moment of peace. It was a fragile illusion, but one he clung to, hoping it might last just a little longer.
His lips parted slightly as he let his front teeth nibble at his underlip, the water rinsing the shampoo from his hair in rivulets of frothy white. One hand trailed down his body, exploring the contours of his form, while the other remained on his upper chest, fingers drawing little circles around his nipple. The sensation sent a jolt through him, a reminder of the life that pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin.
He could feel the heat rising within him—finally—and before he could stop himself, his other hand began to explore as well, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the way his body tightened under his touch. His fingers danced lower, caressing the trail that led to his most private parts, a thrill of anticipation buzzing beneath his skin.
But he didn’t stay in that state for long; it was all too fleeting. Both hands moved to his chest now, squeezing and pulling a little, lost in the sensations. He imagined a random faceless woman doing this to him, the way her hands would glide over his skin, igniting flames of desire he had long since suppressed. In reality, it was always him tormenting them with teasing foreplay, leading them on while his own needs remained untouched.
The frustration with his previous sexual partners faded as he let his mind spin a wonderful experience over them like sweet honey, rich and thick, coating his thoughts in warmth. It was a fantasy woven from threads of longing and dissatisfaction, a glimpse of what could be if he could just let go of the façade he had built around himself. The hands he imagined on him were gentle yet demanding, guiding him in ways he had never experienced before.
A soft sigh escaped him, mingling with the sound of rushing water, and he closed his eyes, surrendering to the moment. He envisioned their bodies moving together, a rhythm as natural as the ebb and flow of the water cascading over him. In that vivid reverie, he found solace, a fleeting escape from the empty encounters that usually defined his nights. Here, he could be the one who was desired, who was cherished, even if it was just a figment of his imagination.
The faceless woman in his mind slowly faded, dissolving into just hands—firm, demanding hands that knew exactly what they wanted. One hand trailed down his body, feeling the tautness of his muscles, while the other rose up, fingers breaking into his mouth and pushing his tongue down, asserting dominance just as he had mere minutes ago with that woman whose name he had already forgotten.
The sensation was electrifying, igniting something primal within him. Alastor pressed his own tongue down, letting it play against the fingers that invaded his mouth, a daring dance that sent shivers down his spine. A little noise escaped him, a soft whimper muffled by the intrusion, as his imagination ran wild with the thrill of surrender.
He envisioned even more commanding fingers, their touch filled with authority and intent. The blood rushed to his nether parts, a delightful heat pooling low in his abdomen. With deliberate slowness, his other hand began to trace alongside his body, fingers exploring the lines of his own flesh. He moved with intention, feeling each contour, each ridge as he mapped out the territory of his own desires. His breath hitched slightly, a sharp intake of air, as he bit down on his fingers, trying to muffle the noises that threatened to spill forth.
Each deliberate caress heightened his awareness, drawing him deeper into the throes of his fantasies. He was lost in a world of sensation, where he could finally relinquish control and succumb to the rhythm of his own body.
His mind raced with images of commanding hands, urging him to explore further, to give in to the craving that had been buried for so long. With every stroke, every whispered promise that danced through his thoughts, Alastor surrendered a little more, allowing himself to be swept away in the tide of his own longing.
A slurping sound echoed in his bathroom as Alastor freed his fingers from his mouth, gripping the cold, tiled shower wall for support. His body bent forward slightly, his hand working with a frantic rhythm, desperate and eager. Pleasure swelled within him, spilling forth in soft puffs of sound that filled the air around him. He refused to open his eyes, instead immersing himself deeper in the perfect little world he had created in his mind.
He craved something more, something he couldn’t quite articulate—a desire to be filled, to feel whole in a way that had eluded him for so long. Moans escaped his lips as he envisioned those rough, commanding hands now working even stronger on his length, nearly choking his flesh with every stroke. He tried to hide his face between the wall and his forearm, shielding himself from the harsh reality around him, desperate to remain in this sanctuary of fantasies.
As his whole body moved, he instinctively made himself appear smaller, bending further as his hips began to grind against his own ministrations. Whimpers spilled from his agape mouth, each one a silent wish for that unknown person to provide him with what he so desperately craved. The heat pooling low in his abdomen intensified, a wave of yearning that surged through him with every thrust of his hand.
“Please,” he found himself whispering, a plea for fulfillment that resonated in the steamy air. He wanted—no, needed—this release, the kind that would fill the emptiness inside him, even if just for a moment. His breath quickened, each pant mingling with the sound of rushing water as he lost himself in the throes of his desire, grinding against the wall, lost in the rhythm of his own body and the fantasies that danced just out of reach.
The moment of ecstasy shattered as the nagging voice inside him broke the spell, roaring with derision. “Pathetic,” it sneered. “You’re here stroking yourself after just having some nice velvet cunt wrap around you. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Alastor opened his eyes and instantly regretted it, caught in a pathetic display of human desire. His hand slowed, and the heat of lust began to wash down the drain, leaving behind an uncomfortable emptiness.
“Useless!” he spat at the shower wall, the harshness of his words echoing off the tiles. Frustration bubbled over, and he hammered his fist against the wall a few times, growling in response to the simmering embarrassment that clawed at him. How could he let himself sink so low? The weight of his disappointment felt crushing, mixing with that familiar numbness that had settled in the pit of his stomach.
“Fool,” he hissed, more to himself than the wall, each insult laced with self-loathing. “How dare you indulge in such weakness?” His eye twitched in irritation as he continued to wash himself, scrubbing at his skin as if he could cleanse away the shame clinging to him.
The warm water streamed down his body, but it did little to soothe the turmoil brewing within. Each droplet felt like a reminder of the emptiness he couldn’t escape, a mocking laugh at his futile attempts to find satisfaction. The echoes of his own voice filled the bathroom as he muttered profanities, desperate to finish this shower and put an end to this moment of vulnerability.
He quickly turned off the water, the abrupt stop jolting him back to reality. Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel and dried himself off with mechanical movements. The reflection in the mirror loomed large and unforgiving; he caught a glimpse of the hollow look in his eyes, the once vibrant spark now dimmed.
With a sharp inhale, he turned away from the mirror and made his way to his dressing room. He opened the drawer of neatly folded clothes, pulling out a crisp white shirt and a tailored black vest. He dressed quickly, the fabric clinging to his lean form in a way that, under normal circumstances, might have pleased him. Even though it felt more like armor than attire.
Once dressed, he moved to the mirror again, fixing his hair with quick, practiced motions. His fingers worked through the wavy strands, coaxing them into place. Finally, he adjusted his glasses, making sure they framed his face just right. The familiar action helped him reclaim some semblance of control, pushing the turmoil of earlier into a corner of his mind.
With one last look at his reflection, a smile plastered on his lips that felt more like a mask than a genuine expression—he nodded at himself, as if giving approval. “Showtime,” he murmured under his breath before stepping out of his home and into the cooler night air.
The radio tower loomed ahead, its lights blinking like a beacon against the dark New Orleans sky. As he walked, he embraced the familiar rhythm of the city, letting the sounds of nightlife wash over him.
There was work to be done!