Chapter Text
1.
Alastor, in what little free time he happens to have, is a man who enjoys reading. He enjoys crime fiction, ironically so! Murder mysteries or detective novels, crime drama so to say—all so very entertaining. The classics are, without doubt, much preferable above the others; to deny Poe’s penmanship would be foolish, after all, though that isn’t to say he doesn’t indulge in more up-to-date literature—he does rather cherish the works of one certain modern author “Matthew R. Lloyd”, which he presumes uses an alias. With mysteries and clever twists in his works, what is there not to like? The personality of the author shines through the paragraphs, intentionally or intentionally, with the way he seems to root for the villain in the slightest ways—and isn’t it truly a refreshing thing to see someone who prefers the wicked to the righteous every so often? Interesting, truly, to think about what kind of man his dearly cherished author is in reality—though it seems that finding a way to contact him would prove rather difficult with the secluded lifestyle he leads.
(In addition to those, the gory scenes and his detailed, albeit sometimes slightly incorrect, descriptions of blood and death are fun to read, for a murderer.)
So, when he reads a certain new work from said author, so clearly inspired by one of his murders, Alastor's chest soars with pride. His favourite author, using him as inspiration. A muse. Truly such a thing is the dream of every fan—to be acknowledged by their idol in the highest way possible, to be so dear to them as to become their muse, how could he not be proud?
He doesn't really have a way of reaching out and singing his praises for how accurately the author portrayed him —a charming, darling young man— or how delightful it was to read his murders from the perspective of others, though. It's not like he can pen an anonymous letter from the Bayou Butcher himself.
But oh, Alastor so deeply wishes to make his appreciation known, and if he replicates a murder from one of his books—then surely the author himself would appreciate it a lot, too!
He would appreciate it a great deal, too.
2.
When you first get the news that the infamous Bayou Butcher seemingly tried to replicate a murder from one of your works, you suddenly come to the realisation that using an active and alive murderer on the loose as inspiration for one of your books was possibly a rather unwise decision. However, you didn't think that he would be a great fan of your works at all! As it turns out, he is. He seems to be. At the very least, it's apparent that he is not completely ignorant to who you are.
It's honestly flattering. For one of your muses to turn the tables on you to use you as inspiration was unexpected, and yet, you can't help feeling proud of yourself. It's like finding an anonymous letter from a secret admirer, an exciting sweet secret. How mysterious is it! You, of course, writing under a pen name and hiding your identity, are not one to receive the praises and gifts of fans who love what you put out. But that does not mean that you don’t enjoy them—the pleasant warmth in your chest for the little love letter of your dearest muse seems to prove that you are, indeed, someone who is fond of such things.
Despite your pride at being the muse of a murderer, you are very much aware that it doesn't seem like this is going to be very good for your reputation. You need to figure out what to do next, somehow, to do something about the slander and accusations that are sure to come your way—so you decide that going out for a walk late at night can be a good way to clear your head and think. The forest is beautiful under the full moon's light, and no one else would roam there at such a late hour. One of your indulgences that your friends don't approve of.
3.
What you were expecting when you went out for a walk very late at night was anything but seeing a young man drag a bloody corpse through the woods, and it seems that what Alastor was expecting to see in the woods while he was busy dragging a bloody corpse through them was anything but a young woman looking at him with an undecipherable expression. His immediate thoughts are, unsurprisingly and unfortunately, to kill you right then and there even if it would be such a shame to kill a perfectly innocent lady. Before he can act on the thought and lunge at you, though, you interrupt the uncomfortable silence between you with a loud voice.
“Hello!”
You sound unnecessarily joyful, given the situation you're in. You just witnessed a murder, or rather the aftermath of it, and your voice doesn't give it away one bit. If he didn't know any better, Alastor would say that you're happy to be seeing such a thing.
He does end up lunging at you anyways, if only to shut you up. He places one finger on your lips, harshly grabbing your arm with his other hand. The momentary fear and panic you had at being cornered all fade away the moment you get a clear look of his face. Now that he's close, you can actually see his features. Under the moonlight, he looks so very beautiful despite the rage in his eyes; much prettier than a murderer you could imagine or write about in your books.
“Be quiet, or I'll have to shut you up, my dear.”
“Ah!” His voice snaps you back to reality. “Sorry! I got excited.”
The anger in his eyes disappears in a second. Excited? That's interesting. Alastor doesn't open his mouth, deciding to wait for you to elaborate instead.
“Because… you're an inspiration… I think.”
“I am?”
Surely he is not the person you think him to be. What are the chances of this random man in front of you actually being the one you liked writing about oh so much? If he is, he certainly exceeds the expectations — how very alluring indeed. The rumoured Bayou Butcher just so happening to take a walk at the same time as you. You recklessly want to bet on that slim chance.
“I… don't know, actually. Ah! Would you happen to be the ‘Bayou Butcher’?”
That name. It's rather funny.
“What a silly nickname that is! My reputation precedes me, or so it seems.”
Oh! This is him! The muse you wanted to meet for so long, now in your grasp. Actually, it is more accurate to say that it is you who is in his grasp. But you are face to face with him, and he has proved to be enough of a gentleman to not have killed you yet. You get the feeling that he won't—your muse! After all, he is your muse! Your face lights up, and you jump a little in his arms. He tightens his grip on you as a warning, and you still. Can't lose your head so soon after meeting him. A small giggle tears from your throat.
“Ah, mister, you gave me your secret.” Your voice drops down to a whisper. “In return, I'll give you mine.”
“Hmm?”
“I just so happen to be a certain Mr. Lloyd,” you smile, “nice to meet you.”
“…Lloyd?”
Now it's Alastor's turn to wonder. Surely you are not talking about what he thinks you're talking about. What are the chances of this random woman in front of him to actually be the author he liked reading oh so much? If she is, then she certainly breaks down all expectations—how very interesting indeed. The dearly cherished Mr. Lloyd just so happening to be Miss Lloyd instead. He hopelessly wants to bet on that slim chance.
“Oh? I thought you were a fan of my works. Was I wrong?”
Works. Works. Of course. He was right to think that his dear author would write under a pen name, but he didn't suppose that he would be a dame. This situation is not good — he didn't think that he'd stumble upon you, of all people, while he was busy trying to drag a dead body to his cabin. His heart is beating too fast for his own liking now. He wonders for a moment, if you realise his heavy breathing, if you're creeped out by it.
Right. Where are his manners? Trying to calm his mind, he takes your hand and places a small kiss on it. It only makes his heartbeat worse.
“Alastor, Miss Lloyd.” Another kiss. “So nice to meet you indeed.”
4.
After Alastor's initial… jitters at having a meet-cute with his dear author, you help him drag the body into his little cabin in the woods after all. I want to get to know you better, was what you said, since you're an inspiration. Your nonchalant attitude is absolutely not helping his situation, and he feels that it is so utterly unfair. You, so defenseless, all by yourself in the middle of the night — saw him covered in gore and blood, and he is the one who's nervous. How odd. How truly odd indeed.
When the two of you make it to his cabin, he doesn't bother with changing into clean clothes or disposing of the corpse at all. Those can wait. You're in front of him, and though the dried blood doesn't show on your black dress, the blood you got on your hands from helping him carry the body simply complements your skin so beautifully. The hands that penned the stories he so cherished, now stained with blood — because of him. Because you wanted to get to know him.
His heartbeat picks up again.
“Would you like coffee?” He asks. He has to distance himself from you, somehow, distract himself so that he won’t make a mistake in front of you.
“Oh, I don't want to be a bother.”
He grits his teeth.
“I would have made coffee for myself either way, dear! Don't be a stranger, will you?”
You giggle. Hm. So he has said something correct.
“Then I would like some.”
Alastor disappears into the kitchen.
With you out of his sight, he suddenly finds himself an awful lot more collected. Now, whatever shall he do? He washes the dried, sticky blood off of his hands. Right. Can’t make you coffee with dirty hands. He’s a good host. What’s next? Right—that’s right. He is in the kitchen to make coffee. He puts some water on the stove. And what’s next is—he should probably change into clean clothes and make the coffee, yes. No. Wait. Clothes can wait. You don't seem to mind the blood. You don't seem to mind him at all.
You don't seem to mind him at all.
That doesn’t seem fair.
Out of the jumbled mess of thoughts in his mind, he recalls one thing. You wrote for him first. You told him that he was an inspiration. You're as much of a fan of him as he is of yours — so why is it that it's only him who's nervous? Your calm demeanor somehow pisses him off. The roles should be reversed — you should be shaking in fear while he taunts you with empty threats, calmly smiling at you as he relishes in your struggles. Maybe he should take a knife right now, and…
The water comes to a boil. Right. He is in the kitchen to make coffee.
Alastor, ever the gentleman, comes back to ask you how you like your coffee. You, ever the lady, simply tell him to make your coffee how he likes it. So, you end up with a cup of very black and very bitter coffee in your hands. Curled up on Alastor's couch, making yourself at home, you enjoy the coffee nevertheless. Alastor, sitting in front of you, seems to be more interested in you than in his drink. Regardless, the silence persists. It's so very comfortable. After the beating of his heart was deafening in his ears at being found by you, after your very poorly contained laughs rang so loudly in the forest, after the familiar sound of a body being dragged through the bayou, the whistling of the wind—it’s so very comfortable to only stay silent. Silent with you.
“…I killed for you.” Alastor blurts out without thinking.
“Hmm?”
Ah. There goes the silence he liked so much.
“Ah— I presumed… that your latest book was inspired by me.” A moment. “Correct?”
“Mmm.” You put the cup down. “Did you like it?”
“Very much so! And I replicated a murder of yours — to return the favour.”
You look at him, for a second, as if you actually see him; instead of looking past him or averting your eyes. He freezes when you catch his eyes, stunned; unable to tear his gaze away from you.
“I know.” And then you smile, ever so calmly, again. “I was so happy.”
Oh, your smile. Such a pretty smile it is! You hug your knees to yourself, making yourself comfortable in his house—you look content, look at him like he's a better man than he actually is. Content. So his efforts weren't in vain after all. But before he can say anything, you go on.
“But, ah, I guess that's a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“You killed another person because of me, so that means I'll get in trouble for, uh… urging? Er, inspiring you into killing someone. I probably shouldn't have written about you. Ah, well. Don't talk about me in your radio show.”
The momentary panic that flared in Alastor’s chest disappears the moment you mention his show as he lights up instantly; and the beloved radio star, save for only the last part, proceeds to ignore everything you said.
“You listen?”
“Mm. Not very often. I'm more of a fan of your… other works.”
Fan. Right. You are also a fan.
His smile widens.
“Well now, my dear, that just won't do!” He gets up from his couch to come to your side, holding one of your hands again. He's so awfully touchy for some reason, you think. You don't really mind it. “I'm always tuned in for your books. So it's only fair that you also tune in for my show! You're a fan, aren't you?”
“Fan!” You say the word with such joy. It sounds rather sweet. “Of the murders. But, hmm… Well, it's alright. I'll listen. You killed for me, after all.”
You laugh. You're such a tease.
“I was honoured.” You hold his hand back. “I thought it was so… endearing.”
Such a tease indeed.