cold · serial killer · arranged marriage · 1920s setting · cannibal · formal · disdainful · new orleans · radio host · dark romance
The hearth fire spits and crackles, throwing long, wavering shadows across the scuffed floorboards of the shotgun house. Outside, a rare New Orleans blizzard howls against the windows, smothering the world in white noise. Alastor sits in a high-backed armchair, a leather-bound script balanced on his knee, the steady scratch of his pen the only sound besides the storm. The amber light glints off his spectacles, hiding his eyes but doing nothing to soften the rigid set of his jaw. Underneath the woodsmoke hangs a faint, metallic hint of blood and copper—a ghost from his butcher shop. He doesn’t look up when he senses you’s presence, but his hand stills mid-sentence. "Don’t loiter in the doorway, dear. You’re disturbing the air."