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sweet dreams.

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don't mistake my kindness for weakness. i am kind to everyone, but when someone is unkind to me, weak is not what you are going to remember about me.

— Al Capone [Gangster, businessman.]



murdering innocents was one thing.

inadvertently slaughtering a rogue mafioso from a big-shot New York drug cartel was another. the most hysterical part was that the woman’s bleeding body, now accented with pretty evisceration wounds, looked entirely normal and not like some Yankee Yakuza affiliate’s at all.

Alastor considers himself to be a poised individual who liked to pay special attention to the smaller, less noticeable details on things, but as he enjoys his post-kill cigarette next to the still-warm cadaver, he doesn’t catch a single detail that might even mildly allude him to such a curious background.

what he did know about the draining corpse was that she had been flabbergastingly wealthy. this wasn’t exactly an oddity in New Orleans- not with all that irritating prohibition around. that, and the woman seemed rather posh, if not gaudy. her clothes were a little harsh on Alastor’s particular set of eyes. it did not, however, stop him from pocketing that very generous amount of currency. besides, that absurd amount of loose cash looked more like a few pleasant nights in Mimzy’s speakeasy than a cartel’s drug funds.

with this astonishing paycheck here, Alastor delights in the fact that he can order a few extra shots of giggle water without feeling guilty for whittling away at his unfortunately pitiful radio - host profits.

a few serene days, has Alastor hunched over his kitchen table, slender fingers wrapped around the toasty handle of his coffee mug as his mahogany eyes scanned over the morning’s newspaper. he’s blatantly and purposefully ignoring the enormous article labelled by the bolded headline proclaiming shock pertaining to New Orlean’s own serial murderer, ‘the Bayou Killer’.


an unfortunate title, really. Alastor silently chides with a purse of his lips.


humans were utterly boring in their creativity in naming things. Alastor rose to his feet to fetch a pencil for the daily crossword puzzle on page two of his paper whilst disgustedly reconciling his neighbour’s - Niffty is her name- , clear lack of imagination when she named her tiny, ugly dog ‘Spot’, or something uninteresting and ridiculously bland like that. 

Alastor returned to his seat, pencil in hand, and looked over the crossword puzzle with interest. the subtle twitching in his hands had come to a halt for now since they were rather sated from his messy endeavour two nights before. the only fidgeting they’re up to now is all to blame on the itching urge he has to spend that staggering amount of money on Mimzy’s hard liquor. nothing, absolutely nothing throughout the entire state of Louisiana tasted as wonderful as illegal alcohol.

with the exception of his dear mother’s jambalaya.

tapping his glasses down the bridge of his nose, Alastor began his puzzle and silently made a plan to go and visit his lovely friend’s speakeasy tonight. it had been quite a chunk of time since he’d seen her. he wonders if she will sing tonight. Mimzy’s saucy melodies would certainly make Alastor’s little evening excursion all the more delightful.

speaking of singing…

Alastor stands yet again and meandered to the kitchen to click on his polished radio. both the dining room and kitchen were immediately filled with upbeat jazz music. Alastor went back to the table, tapping his foot to Ella Fitzgerald’s spectacular honeyed singing voice.

amidst the soothing static and the sweet tunes oozing from the radio, Alastor is suddenly piqued by the gentle sound of a cocking of a gun. he hardly has the time to react and set his pencil down onto the kitchen table before the hard barrel of a pistol is pressed threateningly against the back of his head.

“well, ain’t you just a handsome devil?” purrs Alastor’s unexpected house guest, “it’s a damn shame that i’m gonna hafta kill ya, baby.”

Alastor cocked a brow and twisted around in his seat to face his intruder with a scowl. a rather feminine man stood there, elegantly poised with, of course, a firearm in his hand. Alastor gaped over the man’s intense bright, platinum blond hair and the - well, ‘extravagant’ would be the most polite way to describe the atrocious hot-pink pinstripe suit that he’s wearing. and… was that? … lipstick?


my dear God. i’m going to be gunned down by a Pansy Craze fanatic .


baby?” Alastor repeated as if the frisky nickname physically pained him. a disinterested scowl marred his attractive features. he wonders when exactly he’d gotten so hammered that he’d stumbled into a gay bar and pissed off this brightly dressed fellow. “i am not your baby.”

the pink dressed man chuckled, pushing the gun into Alastor’s forehead. “yeah, yeah. listen buddy. it’s obvious that you’ve read today’s papes, so let me cut this short- (“you’re far too late for that, i’m afraid.” ; “quiet!”) i know you’re some kinda hot-shot radio - host,” the man explained with a prideful smirk on his lips, “so, basically, i’m gonna need ya to put in a little love letter for that bitchin’ ‘bayou killer’ for me. got it?”

Alastor was dumbfounded by this.

“my humble apologies, uh… my dear, but… pardon?” Alastor inquired frowning at the pink-suited man incredulously, “why on God’s green Earth would you want to chat up that serial killer for? perhaps you have a death wish?” he asked and then laughed gleefully, despite the gun barrel digging uncomfortably into his forehead, “are all you drag queens like this? how entertaining! or can i assume that you want to talk to the killer because it would grant you fifteen minutes of fame on the picture show!?”

“huh? you- … what?” the pink-suited man faltered for just a second.

his mistake.

deftly, Alastor sprang into motion, knocking the intruder’s hand away, disrupting his careful aim. the radio - host shoved him away, sending the pink-suited man’s lithe figure flying into the kitchen wall. the pained groan that forces itself from the man’s lips nearly makes up for the damage his body had just put into Alastor’s wall.

there’d be an awful dent there for weeks!

Alastor snatched up his wooden pencil from off the table and lunged forwards, aiming to stab the intruder on between the eyes, but rather slammed the writing utensil into the wall, just barely avoiding his house guest’s pretty face.

wait— he missed…?!

“what a terrible aim,” the man chided with a smirk. he drank the delicious shocked expression on the radio - host’s face, bristling with amusement. rearing back, he sent a hard kick into Alastor’s torso and watched as the baffled man stumbled backwards, hit his back on the kitchen table, and fell onto it.

the pink-suited man sneered and aimed his gun at Alastor’s face yet again. “i do admire all of your efforts though, sugar.”

Alastor glared up at the dapper young man, grimacing at the spilled coffee that’s slowly soaking into his clothes. “might you cease with those infernal names?” he asked, pushing off the table, “it’s really rather distasteful.” Alastor’s mahogany eyes narrowed, furiously staring down the shiny barrel of his oppressor’s pistol.

the man snorted. “i mean i would ask for your name, but i’m just gonna kill ya anyways. not really worth it, ya know?” he said, cocking the hammer back once again, “oh! and if you try pushin’ me again, i swear to all things holy that i’ll shoot you right then. or! you can listen to my proposal and save your wall and pretty face from more damage,” he shot a quick glance to the broken pencil that’s embedded halfway inside Alastor’s poor wall, “does that sound like a fair deal?”


no, it did not!


Alastor sat back onto his table, cringing as his trousers absorbed more of the warm coffee. “.. very well, my.. very effeminate gentleman. to repeat my inquiry from earlier, why on Earth would you want to chat up this serial killer?” he asked puzzled, crossing his arms, “also might you inform me of your name? i’m merely speculating i will not be surviving this encounter; i think i have earned that piece of knowledge.”

“it’s Angel,” the pink-suited man - Angel - mused, sliding a hand through his blinding locks, “normally, that’s a need to know, and you really don’t! haha, but you’re hot as fuck, so call me a sucker.” Angel ignored the cocked eyebrow and the dirty look Alastor flashes at him in reply. the mafioso rested a hand on his hip and sighed heavily. “look baby, basically, one of my fuckin’ subordinates ran here with a shit ton of my cash from a little altercation i got into with this drug-dealin’ son of bitch,” Angel explained, tapping his finger against his waist irritatedly, “anyways, she was recently fuckin’ slammed by that ‘Bayou Killer’ or whatever. so i need to ‘negotiate’ with his psychotic ass and get my goddamn money back.”

Alastor pursed his lips as he processed this new information.


this certainly changes things.


of all the people’s he’s slaughtered, this was new. the woman had been rather wealthy— but Alastor hadn’t considered the possibility of her being a Yankee Yakuza! why would he?! the chances were one in a million!

“you presume the Bayou Killer listens to my show?” Alastor inquired curiously, “i mean. i’d feel rather cajoled if he did!”

Angel rolled his eyes. “yeah, whatever sweets. can ya do that? put me on the air so i can threaten him?” he confirmed with a quirk of his lip, “if not, you’re absolutely useless to me and i’ll kill you, and i’ll break into your dumb studio myself.”

Alastor cackled.

the radio — host slid off his table and grimaced briefly at the coffee stains and smell that hovered around him. this would be an outfit requiring several dozen washes, wouldn’t it?

Angel seemed skeptical at this sudden movement, stepping back and flexing his index finger on the trigger, but the radio—host didn’t seem to mind too much. those mahogany eyes of his seemed to darken just a bit as he tapped the end of the pistol with a rather grotesque smile plastered across his face.

“hey,” the pink-suited man spat, “don’t think i won’t shoot you just because ya suddenly grew a pair! i swear i will!” he trained the gun on Alastor, sneering.

Alastor chuckled. “i have a new proposition for you, Angel.” he sauntered off towards the cabinets beside the pencil that is still lodged in the wall, disregarding the pistol in Angel’s hand. he swung open the door and pulled out the thick wad of cash that he’d stolen from his previous victim’s body.

Angel’s jaw dropped. “how did you—”

“how about, i keep this very generous prize and i skin you and make a carpet for my parlour~?” Alastor proposed, a wry grin on his mouth. Angel is startled to see a shining, sharp blade in the man’s hand. he panicked, readjusted his aim and fired.

Alastor hummed as the rashly shot bullet whizzed through his cabinet door, and past his head, barely scraping against his left ear.

“y–you’re the Bayou Killer!?” Angel exclaimed incredulously, “no fucking way!”

Alastor ran and swiped at him with the knife, laughing heartily. “no one ever believes me when i say yes, tsk! a dashing lad like you— your dead body is bound to find me fame all over the radio!” Alastor grit his teeth, lunging towards the intolerable mafioso with his blade.

Angel leapt back and realised he needed to resort to his hand-to-hand combat with this wild card. his fuschia eyes scanned over the room desperately — there wasn’t room for a gun in this fight and this ridiculously handsome man was in his element right now! the mafioso stood by, dodging the swipe of the radio star’s blade.

Alastor snorted. Angel’s efforts were weak! his blade caught a few times, but he could only seem to scratch Angel — not that these little cuts were bothering him at all. Alastor’s knife caught Angel’s forearm, and with a cry, the gun in Angel’s hand flew across the floor, firing three bullets into random pieces of furniture in Alastor’s living room.

both boys looked towards the displaced weapon and then locked eyes. Angel whipped around to grab the gun, grunting as he did. Alastor flung the knife at his unwelcome house—guest, watched it miss and lock itself into the side of his sofa.


my goodness, isn’t my aim just off today!


Angel glowered at the radio star with a lowly smirk. to him, Alastor was just an amateur— Angel could take him down with a solid left. he lunged at the now weaponless, and very startled man, tackling him into the kitchen table, soaking the cold coffee into both of their clothes. Alastor hissed, driving his elbow into Angel’s shoulder blade.

“ya fucker!” Angel growled, twisting himself around Alastor’s body, wrapping his lithe arms about the radio—host’s throat and tightening the hold. Alastor gasped in surprise and clawed desperately at the mafioso’s grip. Angel inhaled sharply, squeezing tighter, listening to the table grind angrily against the floor. “just let go, baby, you’re too pretty for this.”

Alastor jolted to a stop for a moment; Angel is more than pleased to feel the charming radio star’s hips jerk involuntarily against his pelvis. Alastor’s hand grabs at the spilled coffee cup, bringing it down on the table, shattering it and driving the leftover shard into Angel’s thigh.

Angel shrieked out in pain, releasing Alastor, who immediately wriggled away and made a quick beeline for the knife he’d thrown into his sofa. Angel cursed loudly, wrenching the ceramic coffee cup piece out of his leg, clenching his jaw. Angel fell off the kitchen table and tripped onto the living room floor, falling down at Alastor’s feet. “you’re gonna pay for that, ya absolute—”

Alastor cut him off with a strangled exhale. “this was very entertaining, my dear fellow, but it seems as though you have a date with your Yankee associate — in Hell!” he swung the knife down towards Angel’s body. the mafioso moved swiftly, barely dodging the blade with a choked cry. he grabbed the radio star by the hips and forced him back against the sofa, slamming their lips together and cringed as their teeth clacked together furiously. 

in any other circumstance, Angel would have found Alastor’s outraged squeaking and offended pushing adorable, however right now— Angel dug his fingers into the radio star’s waist and kissed the repulsed man harder. Angel pulled away several seconds later and grinned cheekily.

Alastor, winded and rosy-cheeked, stepped towards him to either deck Angel or fire a furious insult. his expression grew distant and fogged. there's a sharp shock of realisation as he furrows his brows.

y-your lipstick...!” Alastor says excruciatingly confused, his eyes completely glazed over.

Angel would never know the radio-star’s true intentions here, as he watched Alastor’s mahogany eyes roll back into his skull and collapsed into Angel’s waiting arms. Angel laughed victoriously, running his hand through Alastor’s soft, chocolatey locks.


“sweet dreams, sweetheart.”