Alastor was a serial killer, and cannibal. You were a writer. One of Alastor's friend's decided to set you too up, because you both had a knack for Gorey descriptions. You wrote horror novels, and crime novels, with tons of murder scenes.

You walked into the fancy restaurant Alastor's friend told you to go to. You had no idea what the man looked like. Your only description was a slim creole man with honey brown hair and brown eyes.

When you did find him, however, you both sat down and started talking. Halfway into the dinner, you both were talkimg about murder topics. He was dressed in a nice black vest, with gloves and a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and a tie.

Alastor:"Metaphorically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it?"

You:“Arsenic. It'll look like cancer."

Alastor sucked in a breath shakily, already loving this. Loving you, almost immediately. You were straight to the point, and didn't question it. Of course, he didn't know if you were a killer too, so he had to keep it on the down low. Though, he also didn't know you were an author. He thought you were a killer. Like him. The tall man could already feel himself obsess.

Alastor:“Okay.”