I am Happier (When I Hurt You) - Chapter 1 (Kinktober 2025)
Summary: Victor Stein is a celebrated artist, best known for his work using human cadavers to create "living sculptures." A known Playboy, Vic has made a public persona of deviance and debauchery, hiding something even more twisted underneath. Perhaps hiding in the very sculptures he creates. Mary Shelley, PI, is determined to uncover Vic's secrets, especially after he humiliated her two years prior. But Mary's investigation throws the pair together in ways Mary refused to dream of, clouding her judgment. Will she be able to uncover Vic's secrets, or will she succumb to his desires?
DISCLAIMER: I will be switching around the Ao3 official prompts to best suit the story I am trying to tell, and the prompts will be listed at the beginning of each chapter in the summary. Any mental illness depicted may or may not be accurate. I try my best to research symptoms, but I am not an expert and often base things on my own experiences. Stein is obviously a greatly whitewashed psychopath in the manga and will be depicted the same way here, as it is central to his character. He will be violent, possessive, and even cruel at times. If that bothers you, this is probably not a story you want to read. This will be a dark story, and as the author, I do not agree with all the things the characters do, say, or believe. Trigger warnings and kinks are in the tags on Ao3. You have been warned; read at your own risk.
And in mine eyes, thou art the purest perfection…
Condensation pooled off the whiskey glass and onto the paper napkin coaster atop the black granite bar top, its amber contents swirling with the large melting ice cubes the bartender had poured fresh liquor onto. Mary Shelley, private eye, perched atop the cracked leather barstool, a pile of manila folders spread out across the bar, and a well-chewed blue ballpoint pen cap between her teeth.
The light in La Petite Mort – the bar Mary worked out of – was dim, but comforting. Her safe space, her place to brainstorm, to work. Her home away from home. The bar’s atmosphere was cozy, if not sensual, lending itself to lustful gazes and secret rendezvous, not a place for a private investigator to work out of. That was what she liked about it.
People lowered their inhibitions here. It was comfortable, it was sexy. Mary could read her clients better once they let their guard down. Their true intentions were more evident to her when they were relaxed. Mary never liked liars, and she especially hated being deceived by clients. So, she’d bring them here, make them comfortable, encourage them to drink – or chat with her, if they did not partake in spirits – and they would spill all their secrets. All the pertinent details of their cases.
Then she would decide to accept them or not.
“Damn it,” she cursed, yanking the pen cap from between her teeth.
“You good?” the bartender asked, looking over her shoulder.
Brushing her hair back from her face, Mary stared down at the face in the folder in front of her. An old passport photo of a woman not much younger than she was.
She was a pretty girl, tall and slender, with a body that landed her a modeling job right out of high school. Her father, Mary’s client, was the CEO of an up-and-coming software company and had been very worried about his daughter, it seemed. When he wasn’t too busy staring at Mary’s tits, that was.
But that wasn’t what had made her curse, drawing the attention of the very young bartender behind the bar.
It was the paparazzi photo of Anthea with a man. A familiar, silver-haired man with dark, round glasses and a scarred face.
The infamous artist who had made international headlines with his controversial human sculptures. The man who had—
Vic Stein’s human sculptures were not merely posed humans. No. Vic used real human cadavers in his art, individuals who had donated their bodies for scientific study. He had patented a technique that preserved the bodies by removing their water and fat contents and replacing them with compounds that didn’t break down as easily, effectively freezing his subjects in time. This made him very popular in scientific fields, but notorious in art circles, and practically infamous in religious ones.
An affront to God, some had called it. Others dubbed it genius.
But what no one seemed to notice was that pretty girls seemed to disappear around him. Not always permanently, but they would disappear off the face of the earth, then sometimes reappear as if nothing had happened, dazed and a little worse for wear. Sometimes a new sculpture would appear in one of Vic’s exhibits, always a surprise, and some of the girls never popped back up. Then there was the rumor that Vic’s ex-girlfriend – Melissa Gregory, another artist – had been turned into one of his sculptures at his most recent exhibit in the Smithsonian.
Mary had to give those rumors credit; the sculpture did seem proportionately correct for Melissa. However, there was no evidence to back up the tale, and Mellissa’s agent had even come forward to deny it. Apparently, she was taking time off to be with family, but she hadn’t made any public appearances since her breakup with Vic.
Mary wasn’t so sure Melissa was merely taking time off.
Not with what she knew about Vic.
“Hey,” the bartender, Patricia, called, slapping her hand against the granite.
Mary snapped her gaze to the girl, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers. Patricia was too young to be working behind the bar here, but she was friends with the bar’s co-owner’s son, and that came with perks.
“Cutting me off so soon?” Mary teased, swirling her diluted whiskey around in her glass.
A melancholy rock song crooned softly in the background, drowning out Patricia’s sigh of frustration. “No, but you’re scaring people away again, muttering to yourself. Can’t make any tips if you’re doing that.”
“My apologies,” Mary teased, tossing back her drink. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Then she scooped up her files and hopped down from the counter as Patrica rolled her eyes.
“You know that ain’t what I meant,” Patricia grumbled, wiping down Mary’s vacated spot.
Patricia had a baby face and a puckish demeanor. A manic pixie dream girl in the flesh with her short blonde hair, expressive blue eyes, and whimsical style. But her sweet appearance was a front for an explosive temper. The regulars at the bar knew never to mess with her, and it was the only reason Mary hadn’t caused a stink about allowing her to work behind the bar at a few months shy of eighteen.
“Ta ta, kiddo,” Mary said, heading up to the second floor to her office.
Mr. Muerté, the co-owner of the bar along with Mary, was content with letting Mary occupy the large office upstairs for her work as a private detective. He had other business ventures to attend to, and since Mary more often than not slept in the office, he knew the bar was in good hands while he was away. It gave him a piece of mind knowing she was there to look out for his son and his friends.
Though the office was large, it was sparsely furnished. Large filing cabinets lined the walls along with three overflowing bookshelves. An antique Chippendale desk sat in front of the room’s only window with an overstuffed leather chair for her behind it. A small but nice set of leather chairs sat in front of the desk for clients, though they were rarely used as Mary liked to conduct business downstairs in the bar when possible. Finally, there was an old couch tucked into the back of the room for her to sleep on when she was too tired to go home. A worn brown crochet afghan sat folded over the back of the couch, and several pillows were stacked at one end of the couch. She slept there more often than she did at her small apartment a few blocks away. And this place had better showers.
At least it was kept clean. Patricia’s sister, Elizabeth, cleaned the room along the rest of the building instead of serving customers because she had proven too temperamental to deal with them behind the bar. Being more temperamental than Patrica was a feat in and of itself, but Mary appreciated not having to dust.
Sighing, she unlocked the filing cabinet with the key hanging from a chain around her neck and grabbed a few manila folders before locking the cabinet again. She pulled a brown leather satchel from the closet, shoving the folders inside before buckling the worn straps and slinging it over her shoulders. Anthea Smyth’s case, according to her father, was going cold. No one could find her, so he had sought out Mary.
Mary just so happened to be an expert at finding people.
“Hey,” she called to Patricia on her way past the bar. “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you do some cyber stalking on these two for me. Last places seen publicly together, any public appearances after, social media activity, hidden accounts. You know the drill.”
Patricia flipped through the folders, her brow furrowing. “Make it eighty. This guy is trouble.”
“Sixty-five,” Mary shot over her shoulder.
“Deal! He kill the girl?”
Her hand hit the antique crystal doorknob, and the bells on the door jangled violently. Cool evening air blasted into the bar, filling Mary’s lungs and clearing her head somewhat.
“Be safe,” Elizabeth said to her left.
Turning, Mary saw the girl leaning against the aging brick exterior of the bar, smoking a cigarette. Her long, sandy blonde hair was pulled back tightly in a braid, and her white t-shirt was a few sizes too small, leaving her midriff exposed, her low-rise, baggy jeans revealing the small tattoo of a skull she had on her left hip-bone. The logo for La Petite Morte.
“You’re too young to be smoking.” Mary plucked the cigarette from the girl’s hand and stomped it out on the concrete.
“Be safe,” Elizabeth repeated, pulling another cigarette from the carton rolled in her sleeve and lighting it. “Don’t forget what happened the last time you went looking for one of Vic’s girls.”
Mary rolled her eyes, ignoring Elizabeth’s warning. “When am I not?”
