You, his nightmare.
Pairing: Alastor x Reader.
TW: Graphic Violence, Murder, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Obsessive Behavior, Morally Grey Alastor, Racism (1930s Setting), Angst, Fear of Loss.
Alastor had always been drawn to death. He experienced it through his killings. He experimented with weapons. He experimented with the body parts of his victims. That rush of adrenaline… that power… it was simply sublime.
He wanted more.
So he increased his “hunting” sessions.
His little house in the woods became a refuge of lifeless bodies, their eyes wide open in shock yet devoid of color, of soul. Alastor was exhilarated.
No one could stop him.
No one could… find him.
He was a man of color, so he wasn’t allowed into certain places meant for wealthy white men—but those were exactly the places where he hunted, hiding in the shadows, just as he did in his work: he used his voice like a siren’s call, yet never showed himself.
Until he met YOU.
He was rushing out of his workplace, adjusting his long coat over his shoulders with both hands, when he accidentally bumped into you, knocking his glasses to the ground.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!” you said bending down to pick them up—a movement he mirrored, only to straighten again when he realized you were genuinely going to retrieve them.
You had seen him. You had seen the color of his skin. And you didn’t care.
You had offered him a kind, cordial gesture.
You had given him your voice, your words. You had even said “sorry.” Was it really still the 1930s?
“That’s not necessary, my dear, but very kind of you. Thank you,” his tone was tense, almost annoyed—though you didn’t know why.
You smiled warmly, extending your hand to give him his glasses. Alastor reached out, taking them gently from your palm. Your hand tilted slightly. “My name is Y/N. You’re Alastor, right? The radio host? I work in that studio too! Want to grab a coffee?” he shaken your hand too.
“A… coffee? You do know I’m not allowed inside, right?” he raised an eyebrow.
“Ah! Don’t worry! You’ll be safe—no one would dare kill you,” you smiled mischievously.
“Kill me?” he sounded slightly uneasy.
“I was joking! Relax, Mr. Pretty Smile,” you laughed, a spark dancing in your eyes.
“Alright then, lead the way… colleague,” he replied with a wink.
“Getting comfortable already?” you smirked.
“Does it bother you?”
“You tell me,” you winked back.
Alastor studied you, captivated by such boldness and carefree spirit.
Were you aware of what you were doing?
Of the consequences?
Would you still speak to him the next day?
And the day after?
Would you still talk to him if you knew about his darker side?
Alastor silently promised himself he would do the impossible to keep you from discovering his true nature—and that he would never lay a finger on you.
He couldn’t afford mistakes at his workplace. Too risky.
So, you had that coffee.
People around you stared with disdain and disgust, but you placed your hand over his on the small table inside the café, sitting before a large window under everyone’s gaze, the sunlight kissing you through the glass.
Alastor was stunned.
You were a complete stranger, yet your warmth wrapped around him like an invisible cloak, making him feel something strange: appreciated, respected—and, for the first time, as if he were truly home. With someone who could stand up to him, yet demanded nothing from him.
That was how your relationship began: between vinyl records, broadcasts, coffee, and an accidental encounter on the street.
Ironic, isn’t it?
As the days passed, you grew closer. You spent your time writing programs and witty lines, choosing records to play on the radio. The days were brighter together. The air felt lighter, and your radio show was on everyone’s lips. Officially: they loved you. But not everything that glitters is gold…
Alastor had become dependent on your presence.
You were mental stimulation. A source of inspiration, entertainment.
You were different from other women who only thought about cooking for their husbands. You were a visionary. You wanted independence. You didn’t follow the world’s current—you wanted to be yourself, alone, free from control. Just like him. Exactly like him.
For the first time in his life, Alastor felt understood.
For the first.
Time.
Ever.
It was an incredible feeling. He felt like he could shout it to the world. He was happy.
HAPPY.
But he had no one to share that happiness with, no one he could talk to about you.
He so badly wished he could tell his beloved mother… but she was no longer there. And yet, he spoke to her every night. He told her how you made him laugh. How you took care of him. How you even brought him food to work—things he wasn’t allowed to buy because of the color of his skin.
Alastor adored you.
You were the only one who had ever treated him as an equal.
As a human.
The only one in the entire country—in the city, in the world. He was grateful to you for giving him a taste of this world.
And beyond your minds, your bodies drew closer too.
You both became radio hosts, as women had been allowed into radio since the 1800s—and Alastor was very happy about that. Your duo was a success, entertaining audiences with your chemistry and banter. The room was yours alone. The world became a small bubble, isolating you from everything else.
There was only you for him.
Only him for you.
You spent nearly every day together… and Alastor wanted more.
He was no longer used to being alone with his thoughts.
He realized it one evening, returning home. It was the first time in a long while that you weren’t with him. He noticed he hadn’t even killed during that time—completely distracted, consumed by you: a source of life and inspiration. A light that had pulled him away from his ruthless cruelty?
As he walked down the dirt road, kicking stones with a cigarette in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, he thought of you. The whole time.
When he got home, he undressed and went to bed in his nightclothes.
Hours passed.
The next morning, the news spread: you were dead.
Rumors circulated through the town.
People whispered.
“Who could have done this?”
“Poor girl... so young!”
“Is there a killer among us?”
Alastor was visibly shaken—not just by the rumors, but by the brutal truth: you were DEAD.
Someone had stabbed you and left your body in the woods outside the city.
You were gone forever before he could even deepen your bond, before he could understand you—or himself.
A story ended before it could even begin.
His breathing grew heavy.
He clutched his chest, gripping his shirt.
“What have I done? What have I done?!”
But the truth was, Alastor had done nothing—except not walk you home that night, because you insisted you’d be fine.
“Why? Why does everyone around me die? WHY?!”
Panic spread through his entire body.
His eyes, then, snapped open.
He was drenched in sweat. His left hand clutched his chest, gripping his white shirt. Sweat dripped from his forehead. For a moment, he saw blood on his hands. They trembled. But there was no blood.
It had all been a terrible, vivid nightmare.
His heart raced uncontrollably. Nothing seemed to calm him. He tried to breathe, to steady himself.
“Alastor, pull yourself together. This isn’t you!” he repeated like a mantra.
It worked. His hands stopped sweating. His heartbeat slowed. His breathing gradually returned to normal.
He got ready and went to work.
And you...
Oh...
You were there.
Smiling.
More beautiful than ever.
But that night, he had the same nightmare.
And the night after.
And the night after that… and so on.
Alastor began to cry at night.
Shaken.
The dreams grew worse—more gruesome, more detailed about your death. But what terrified him most was that he was horrified at the thought of losing you.
He never felt satisfaction or pleasure seeing you lifeless and cold.
No… he was simply terrified.
Another night he had the same dream.
So, he dressed in a hurry and ran to your house, knocking like a madman.
You rushed to the door and found him there—in his pajamas, a long coat thrown over it, his hair disheveled, his expression shattered.
“Sir Alastor? Is everything—” before you could finish, he dropped to his knees in front of you, wrapping his arms around you—thin, but incredibly strong.
You felt him sob.
“Don’t die. Please… I beg you! Don’t die!”
And in that moment, Alastor realized he was completely, utterly, fucked—and nothing would ever be the same for him again.
Because of you.
