Hello everyone! I know i haven't been updating recently and I SWEAR I will lock in soon
Ive been struggling financially lately and im not longer writing smut so the writing commissions have been scarce
BUT. Ive started an art account on Intagram, Jennie_Miller77 Im doing commissions there!
Heres some of my art~
The top two are yumiship commissions~ you can contact me here for a com or on my Instagram. Id really appreciate some help and I get to practice art at the same time!!
Eli is back from Europe so I'll begin writing soon. In the meantime, I am doing free drawing commissions on my Instagram @jennie_miller777
I only have three spots available per week and one slot is gone!
All you have to do is follow, like my newest post, and dm me what you'd like!!
Tips are always welcome of course but not expected. Just trying to keep up my art and whatnot. But yeah, id love some support over there and id love to talk to you all 💚💚
Synopsis - It's Eli's first birthday down in hell as a demon, shes been with Alastor for years but he wants to make this day special. In their own little cottage tucked away from hell, he makes it a birthday she won't forget.
Tags - No reader, it's Eli insert/ Suggestive/ Not entirely NSFW/ MOSTLY fluff/ Eli has a potty mouth/ Devoted Alastor/ Engaged/ Using my hell persona
The little cottage was warm.
Not hot—not with the soft breeze drifting through the cracked bedroom window—but warm in the way homes were supposed to be. The kind of warmth that settled into old quilts, wooden walls, and sleepy skin.
Eli groaned softly as consciousness finally pulled her awake.
Hell’s strange golden-red morning light filtered through the floral curtains, painting stripes across the bed. Across her. The sheets tangled around her waist as she shifted, one leg stretching lazily beneath the blankets.
Oh, she was sore.
Not painfully. Not even close.
The good kind.
The kind that left her heavy and boneless after a night spent with Alastor between her thighs, his sharp grin buried against her skin while she clung to his hair hard enough to probably ruin it.
Worth it.
Absolutely worth it.
A sleepy smile tugged at her mouth as she buried her face into the pillow for another moment.
God, she could still hear his voice from last night. That smooth, honeyed drawl praising her so sweetly she thought she might melt straight through the mattress.
Her deer tail flicked lazily beneath the sheets.
Then she reached beside her.
Cold.
Eli cracked one eye open.
Empty.
“Hm?”
She lifted her head, fluffy pink hair sticking out in every direction imaginable, green roots a mess from sleep. The bed beside her was abandoned, though the faint scent of his cologne still lingered in the blankets.
Honestly, she should’ve expected it.
Alastor barely slept.
Two hours if she was lucky.
Usually she’d wake up and find him in the armchair with a book, at his desk writing radio scripts, or—because he was apparently insane—just staring at her sleep with that soft unsettling smile.
Which she pretended not to notice.
Most of the time.
Eli stretched slowly, arms over her head, back arching with a tiny hiss when her muscles protested.
“Okay,” she mumbled to herself, voice rough with sleep. “Maybe four rounds was excessive.”
Her ears twitched.
Actually…
No.
No it wasn’t.
A stupid grin spread across her face as she rolled out of bed.
The cottage floor was cool beneath her feet as she shuffled toward the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but the sheet she'd stolen from the mattress. The little house creaked softly around her, cozy and lived-in.
Their home.
That thought still hit her sometimes.
Not the hotel.
Not some temporary room.
Not survival.
Home.
The bathroom mirror was slightly fogged from the bath they’d taken before bed, and Eli blinked at her reflection while she gathered up her hair.
Pink skin dusted with darker freckles over her cheeks and shoulders like scattered strawberry seeds.
Bright blue eyes still sleepy.
Her fluffy hair was hopeless this morning, sticking out around her deer ears in chaotic tufts.
“…Jesus Christ.”
She looked like she'd been dragged through a tornado backwards.
Then again, Alastor had been gripping her hips hard enough last night to practically fold her into the mattress, so honestly? Fair enough.
Eli snorted to herself before grabbing her brush.
The cottage was oddly quiet while she got ready.
No radio static.
No humming.
No suspicious magical explosions.
Which honestly felt more concerning than noise.
By the time she finished fixing her hair into something presentable, she felt much more alive.
And today deserved effort.
Because today was her birthday.
Her first birthday here.
In Hell.
In the cottage.
With him.
That thought warmed her chest embarrassingly fast.
Eli opened the wardrobe with a smile already forming.
“Ohhh, there you are.”
Carefully, she pulled out her favorite dress.
The fabric was soft beneath her fingers, patterned with little strawberries and picnic baskets across the skirt. It cinched perfectly at her waist, hugging her curves before flaring out beautifully.
Very 1950s housewife.
Very adorable.
Very her.
She slipped it on carefully before turning toward the mirror.
The skirt fluttered around her thighs as she spun once.
Twice.
Her tail wagged immediately.
“Oh, I look cute as fuck.”
She laughed quietly to herself, smoothing down the front of the dress.
The strawberries matched her freckles.
That alone made her irrationally happy.
For a moment, she simply stood there smiling at herself.
The realization hit so suddenly it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.
Loved enough for a home.
Loved enough that someone like Alastor looked at her like she hung the stars themselves.
Her chest tightened warmly.
Then—
A loud crash echoed from downstairs.
Followed immediately by:
“Ah— no no no NO—!”
Eli blinked.
“…What the fuck?”
----
Eli wandered downstairs at an unhurried pace, one hand trailing lazily along the wooden banister.
The cottage smelled warm.
Vanilla.
Butter.
Coffee.
And… smoke?
Her nose wrinkled.
Yeah. Definitely smoke.
“Alastor?” she called, voice still soft with sleep.
Something clattered downstairs.
“One moment, ma chérie!”
Oh, that was never a good sign.
Still, she wasn’t worried. Alastor could handle himself. Usually with alarming efficiency.
She stepped off the final stair and drifted toward the kitchen, tail swaying behind her. Morning hell-light poured through the windows in soft amber beams, illuminating floating dust and the faint curl of smoke rising from—
Oh.
Oh, wow.
There he was.
Alastor stood at the counter with his back partially turned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark red suspenders hanging loose against a fitted white undershirt that clung to lean muscle.
Eli nearly forgot how to breathe.
That shirt should’ve been illegal.
His ears twitched before he even looked at her, somehow sensing her presence instantly.
Then he turned.
“Ah! Sleeping Beauty awakens at last—”
He cut himself off abruptly, eyes dragging over her slowly.
Very slowly.
His grin widened into something syrupy and dangerous.
“…Mon Dieu.”
Eli immediately felt heat crawl into her cheeks.
Because that tone usually ended with her pinned somewhere.
Alastor straightened, flour dusting his cheeks and forearms, dark skin smudged with white in complete contrast to his usual pristine appearance. His hair was slightly messy too, one side falling out of place like he’d been aggressively running his hands through it.
Which honestly made him look unfairly attractive.
“You look utterly delectable this morning, darling,” he purred smoothly. “Positively enchanting. That dress alone may very well kill me.”
Eli snorted softly despite her blush.
“You say that every time I wear this dress.”
“And I mean it every time.”
His tail flicked once behind him.
Fast.
Happy.
Then he suddenly moved sideways.
Trying to block the counter behind him.
Which immediately made Eli suspicious.
“…What was the crash?”
“Crash?” he repeated too quickly. “I heard no crash.”
Another ominous hiss came from the stove.
Eli narrowed her eyes.
“Alastor.”
“Eli.”
She crossed her arms.
He smiled pleasantly.
“…What time is it?” she asked suddenly.
His eyes darted toward the clock.
“Only nine! You could have slept far longer, my dear.”
She shrugged.
“Yeah, well. After weeks of you waking me up at ungodly hours, my brain’s ruined.”
His ears lowered immediately.
Genuine guilt flickered across his face.
“…Ah.”
Eli blinked.
God, he looked actually apologetic.
She softened instantly.
“I don’t mind,” she said with a small laugh. “Means I get more time with you.”
That did it.
His ears perked immediately, tail swishing behind him before he could stop it.
And there it was.
That tiny vulnerable reaction he always tried so hard to hide from everyone else.
Eli smiled fondly.
Cute.
Terrifying eldritch radio demon.
Absolutely adorable fiancé.
She stepped toward him.
Immediately, he held out an arm dramatically.
“Ah-ah! No peeking!”
“Why?”
“Because!” he said, scandalized. “It’s a surprise!”
“You’re literally smoking.”
“It is under control.”
Something popped loudly behind him.
Eli leaned sideways around his shoulder anyway.
Then stopped.
“…What the fuck is that?”
Alastor sighed deeply, the sound full of long-suffering defeat.
The counter looked like a war zone.
Flour everywhere.
Eggshells.
Several bowls.
One waffle iron that appeared personally offended.
And what she thought was waffle batter slowly dripping off the side of the counter.
“I,” Alastor began stiffly, “can prepare a five-star meal worthy of royalty.”
He gestured sharply toward the waffle iron like it had insulted his family.
“But apparently I cannot produce a simple breakfast pastry without entering combat.”
Eli stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Full laughter.
Head tipping back.
Tail wagging uncontrollably.
Little snorting noises and all.
Alastor watched her with mock offense, though the corners of his smile twitched upward helplessly.
“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “You’re losing a fight to waffles.”
“It is sabotage.”
“The batter beat your ass.”
“It lacks discipline.”
She laughed even harder.
And Alastor—
Alastor just stared at her for a moment.
Softly.
Like hearing her laugh was worth every disaster currently coating his kitchen.
Eli finally caught her breath enough to grin at him.
“C’mere. We can make them together.”
His face lit up immediately.
Actually lit up.
Eyes brightening.
Smile softening.
Then he froze.
“…No.”
Eli blinked.
“No?”
“It is your birthday,” he declared firmly, straightening to full height. “You should not be lifting a single finger today, ma douce.”
Her birthday.
The realization visibly hit him all over again.
His eyes widened.
Then suddenly—
“OH!”
Before Eli could react, Alastor lunged forward, scooping her clean off the floor with alarming ease.
“ALASTOR—!”
He spun her around the kitchen effortlessly, laughter crackling from his throat alongside bursts of radio static.
“Happy birthday, darling!”
Another spin.
“Joyeux anniversaire, mon cœur!”
Another.
“My beautiful girl!”
Another.
“Ma chérie! Ma douce! Light of my life!”
Eli was laughing helplessly by the time he finally stopped, clutching his shoulders while he held her against him.
His grin had gone almost wild with affection.
God, he loved her.
It was in every look.
Every touch.
Every ridiculous dramatic gesture.
“You,” he said breathlessly, hands firm on her waist, “are the most marvelous thing Hell has ever produced.”
Eli’s brain short-circuited instantly.
“Alastor—”
“No, no, allow me!”
He kissed the top of her fluffy pink hair.
“My sweet doe.”
Another kiss against her forehead.
“My darling fiancé.”
Both cheeks.
“My radiant birthday girl.”
Eli was already overheating.
“Okay—okay, I get it—”
Then he cupped her face gently.
And kissed her properly.
Deep enough to steal the air from her lungs.
Slow enough to make her melt.
Tender enough that her knees nearly gave out when he finally pulled away.
By the end of it, Eli was actually panting.
Blinking up at him with completely dazed blue eyes.
Alastor looked immensely pleased with himself.
“Goodness,” he mused smoothly, thumb brushing her flushed cheek. “I do adore making you flustered.”
-------
Making the waffles together turned out to be significantly less efficient than Alastor originally intended.
Mostly because Eli was a menace.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake— darling, the flour goes into the bowl—”
“I know that.”
“Then why is it on the ceiling?”
Eli looked upward.
“…Decoration?”
Alastor made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
The kitchen had somehow become even messier than before. Flour dusted the counters, batter streaked one cabinet door, and Eli was fairly certain there was egg shell in her hair.
Worth it.
Especially because Alastor looked ridiculously handsome like this.
Sleeves rolled.
Hair slightly mussed.
Flour on his cheekbones.
Suspenders hanging loose.
It was unfair.
And apparently she wasn’t the only one thinking inappropriate things this morning.
Every time she leaned over the counter, she could practically feel his eyes on her.
Not subtle.
Not even remotely.
At one point she caught him outright staring at her waist while she mixed batter.
He immediately looked away and started aggressively whisking something.
Coward.
Eli grinned to herself.
Then inspiration struck.
Terrible inspiration.
She dipped her hand into the flour bowl slowly.
Quietly.
Alastor was currently distracted lecturing the waffle iron again.
“You will cooperate this time or I shall dismantle you atom by atom.”
Perfect.
Eli walked behind him silently.
Raised her flour-covered hand.
And smacked his ass.
The sound echoed through the kitchen.
Alastor froze.
Completely.
Utterly.
His eyes widened so much she thought they might fall out of his skull.
There, perfectly displayed across his dark slacks, was a very visible white handprint.
Silence.
Then—
Eli burst into hysterical laughter.
Actual cackling.
She nearly doubled over against the counter while her tail wagged violently behind her.
“Oh my GOD— your FACE—”
Alastor turned slowly.
Very slowly.
His entire face was bright red.
Not irritated red.
Flustered red.
And somehow that was even funnier.
“Mademoiselle,” he said sharply, voice crackling with static. “That was deeply inappropriate behavior!”
“You should see your ass right now!”
“I am NOT discussing my posterior with you before breakfast!”
That only made her laugh harder.
Alastor looked scandalized beyond belief.
Yet underneath the embarrassment, Eli could see it—that twitch at the corner of his mouth. The way his tail betrayed him with one quick flick.
He liked it.
The bastard liked being flirted with.
He just couldn’t handle it when she was the one doing the teasing.
Eventually they managed to produce actual waffles without burning the kitchen down.
Which Alastor took immense pride in.
They ate together at the little dining table beside the window while soft jazz drifted from the radio in the corner. Hell’s warm crimson light poured across the cottage, illuminating dust motes and flowers sitting in tiny vases around the kitchen.
Their kitchen.
Eli still loved that thought.
She sat curled sideways in her chair, one foot tucked beneath her while she stole bites from Alastor’s plate whenever he wasn’t looking.
He noticed every single time.
Said nothing.
Just slid another piece toward her automatically.
Domesticity looked dangerously good on him.
“So,” Eli said between bites, “I saw Rosie arguing with somebody in Cannibal Town yesterday.”
Alastor hummed.
“Yes, there’s apparently some dreadful dispute regarding territory lines and a butcher shop.”
“That sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid.”
“Are they gonna kill each other?”
“Hopefully.”
Eli snorted into her coffee.
They slipped easily into conversation after that.
The garden.
The tomatoes refusing to grow properly.
A new flower blooming near the porch.
Some ridiculous political drama in Pentagram City.
Simple things.
Comfortable things.
The kind of conversations that made Eli realize, over and over again, how much she loved this life with him.
Not grand gestures.
Not power plays.
Just this.
Breakfast.
Warmth.
Home.
When they finished eating, Eli stood automatically to help clean.
And immediately found herself shoved gently back into her chair by invisible radio magic.
“Hey!”
“Nope.”
“Alastor—”
“You are forbidden from chores today.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Dishes floated through the air behind him while he spoke, washing themselves in the sink as he straightened the kitchen with practiced ease.
Eli crossed her arms.
“You’re dramatic.”
“And yet you adore me.”
“…Unfortunately.”
He grinned sharply over his shoulder.
The kitchen sparkled again within minutes.
Honestly unfair.
The second the last dish settled into place, Alastor approached her chair.
Eli blinked up at him.
“What?”
Instead of answering, he bent down and scooped her up bridal style effortlessly.
Eli squealed instantly, grabbing onto him while laughter burst from her chest.
“Alastor!”
“My birthday girl should not have to walk either.”
“That’s not how birthdays work!”
“Nonsense.”
He carried her upstairs anyway.
Like she weighed nothing.
Eli wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling while pressing kisses along the side of his throat. She felt him shiver almost imperceptibly beneath her lips.
Interesting.
“Now then,” he said smoothly, climbing the stairs. “I have planned an absolutely delightful day for you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhm. Shopping first, naturally. There’s a scenic route through the southern district I believe you’ll enjoy…”
He nudged open their bedroom door with one foot.
“Then perhaps dinner reservations later this evening.”
Eli’s ears perked immediately.
“Fancy dinner?”
“The fanciest.”
“Ooooh.”
Her tail wagged happily as he set her carefully onto the bed.
Alastor moved toward their shared closet, already adjusting his cuffs as he spoke.
“We may also stop by the flower market if you’d like—”
Eli stopped listening almost immediately.
Because now he was changing clothes.
And unfortunately for him, Eli was obsessed with this man.
Alastor shrugged off his undershirt first, revealing lean muscle and dark skin dusted faintly with old scars. His back flexed as he reached for a fresh dress shirt.
Eli bit back a grin.
Then she decided to ruin his composure.
“Daaamn.”
Alastor paused.
Very slightly.
“That is a view, sweetheart.”
His ear twitched.
“Eli.”
“What? I’m appreciating art.”
“You are objectifying your fiancé.”
“Yes.”
He shot her a look over his shoulder.
She ignored it completely.
“Seriously though, your ass looks incredible in those pants.”
Alastor nearly dropped a cufflink.
Eli burst into laughter instantly.
“Mon Dieu,” he muttered, face turning red again. “You cannot simply SAY things like that so casually!”
“Yes I can.”
“No, you absolutely cannot!”
“You’re literally hot. What am I supposed to do, lie?”
He sputtered indignantly while buttoning his shirt much faster now.
Which only encouraged her.
“That tiny waist? Crazy.”
“Eli—”
“And your arms? I’d let you ruin my life.”
“I AM attempting to dress!”
“And your voice? Actually unfair to society.”
His ears were completely pinned back now.
Bright red all the way down his neck.
Eli was having the time of her life.
Finally Alastor whirled around dramatically, vest half-buttoned and expression scandalized.
“You are an incorrigible woman.”
She grinned sweetly.
“You love me.”
He opened his mouth immediately.
Then stopped.
Because unfortunately for him—
She was right.
Alastor sighed deeply, walking back toward the bed before taking her face gently in both hands.
“…Desperately,” he admitted softly.
And just like that, Eli malfunctioned instead.
------
The rest of the day passed in a blur of laughter, teasing, and Alastor indulging Eli at every possible opportunity.
Shopping had been first.
Which meant Eli immediately became a menace.
“No— no, absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on!” Eli laughed, holding up the shirt triumphantly. “This is amazing.”
Alastor stared at the garment in visible horror.
It was dark red.
Covered in tiny strawberries.
And across the front, in obnoxiously decorative cursive, read:
BERRY IN LOVE
Alastor looked personally betrayed by modern fashion.
“Darling,” he said carefully, “this is perhaps the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen.”
“Exactly.”
“And you wish for me to wear this?”
“With the matching dress.”
She held up her own version proudly.
Alastor closed his eyes briefly like a man enduring divine punishment.
Then he looked at her face.
At the excitement in her bright blue eyes.
At her wagging little deer tail.
At the hopeful smile tugging at her lips.
And immediately lost the battle.
“…Fine.”
Eli gasped dramatically.
“Oh my god, I win.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You’re whipped.”
His ears twitched.
“…Possibly.”
By the end of the shopping trip, Alastor was carrying several bags while Eli skipped beside him happily, occasionally swinging their joined hands.
She swore he walked a little taller whenever she reached for him first.
The scenic route afterward was even better.
The roads winding through quieter parts of Hell glowed beneath crimson skies, strange flowers blooming along the pathways while distant city lights flickered far below.
Eli had kicked off her shoes almost immediately.
Because apparently shoes were oppressive.
Alastor had watched, scandalized, as she sprinted barefoot through the grass laughing like an absolute lunatic.
“Eli!”
“What?!”
“You’ll injure yourself!”
“I’m already dead!”
An unfortunately valid point.
Eventually he’d started chasing her.
Not because he needed to.
Because she liked it.
Eli darted between trees and rocks while laughing breathlessly, pink dress fluttering around her legs. Her fluffy hair bounced wildly as she ran, tail wagging behind her.
Alastor followed at a leisurely pace at first.
Then she stuck her tongue out at him.
“Catch me, old man!”
Static crackled violently through the air.
“Oh, that was unwise.”
Eli shrieked with laughter and bolted.
The hide-and-seek had started shortly afterward.
And somehow—
somehow—
she won every single time.
Alastor found this deeply offensive.
“I do not understand,” he muttered while narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “You are approximately the stealthiest creature alive.”
Eli grinned from her hiding place in the tree branches above him.
“You just suck.”
“I am an apex predator.”
“You lost to a girl with no shoes.”
His eye twitched.
Then she laughed so hard she almost fell out of the tree.
Walking through the city afterward was surprisingly peaceful.
Mostly because the second demons spotted the Radio Demon strolling beside his fiancée, entire sidewalks mysteriously cleared.
One demon physically turned around and walked the opposite direction.
Eli snorted.
“I think they’re scared of you.”
“How observant.”
“You kinda love it.”
“I absolutely love it.”
They window-shopped lazily after that, peering into little boutiques and old record stores.
Eli pointed at one particularly ugly modern couch in a display window.
“What the fuck is that.”
Alastor looked horrified.
“It appears to be furniture.”
“It looks like somebody melted an egg.”
“Modern design continues to disappoint me.”
“Everything’s beige now.”
“Tragic.”
“Cowards are scared of color.”
“Exactly!”
An old demon nearby overheard them and quickly fled before Alastor could notice.
Eli laughed until she cried.
Dinner that evening had been ridiculously expensive.
Eli knew this because the restaurant looked like rich people whispered there on purpose.
Soft lighting.
Live jazz.
Candles.
Fancy silverware she definitely wasn’t supposed to touch wrong.
The hostess nearly fainted seeing Alastor walk in.
He’d smiled pleasantly the entire time.
Which honestly probably made it worse.
Eli tried to glance at the menu prices once.
Alastor immediately folded it shut.
“No.”
“Lemme see.”
“No.”
“What if I wanna know?”
“You do not.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“How expensive is this place?”
“Entirely irrelevant.”
“Alastor.”
“You are forbidden from worrying today.”
And somehow—
Somehow he said it in a way that made warmth bloom through her chest instead of irritation.
So she let it go.
Dinner ended up being incredible anyway.
The whole night was.
By the time they returned home to the cottage, Eli was exhausted in the best possible way.
Happy exhaustion.
The kind that settled warm and heavy in her bones.
The moment the front door closed behind them, she flopped dramatically onto the couch.
“Ohhh my god,” she groaned happily. “Today was so nice.”
Alastor chuckled softly while removing his gloves.
“I should certainly hope so.”
Eli watched him from the couch while he loosened his tie with one hand.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Then he undid the top few buttons of his shirt.
Eli sat up slightly.
Then his belt came undone with a metallic clink.
She whistled immediately.
“Well hello there.”
Alastor arched a brow.
“My, my. Such shameless behavior.”
Eli grinned lazily, sprawled across the couch cushions.
“So… you gonna take me right here on the couch?”
His grin sharpened.
“Perhaps round one could occur here.”
Eli blinked.
“…Round one?”
Alastor hummed thoughtfully while setting his tie aside.
“How old are you today, darling?”
“…Twenty-four?”
His smile widened slowly.
“Excellent.”
Eli stared at him.
Then realization hit.
“Oh, absolutely the fuck not.”
“Twenty-four rounds it is.”
She burst into helpless cackling immediately.
“ALASTOR— you’ll kill me!”
“Nonsense! We must celebrate properly!”
“That’s not celebration that’s attempted murder!”
He simply laughed—that rich crackling laugh she adored—before suddenly scooping her over his shoulder.
Eli squealed loudly as the world tilted.
“HEY—!”
“Upstairs we go!”
She smacked his back between giggles while he carried her toward the staircase effortlessly.
“You are insane!”
“And yet you continue marrying me.”
“That’s because you’re hot!”
“A devastating weakness on your part.”
Eli laughed so hard her stomach hurt while he climbed the stairs with one hand steady against her thighs.
Married Life/Chapter 13/ HumanAlastor x WifeReader
You can find all these past chapters on my ao3 here: !!!
Chapter one (SFW) Kitty Kitty!
Chapter two - That damn dress (NSFW)
Chapter three - Jealousy Looks Good On You, Cher (MILD NSFW)
Chapter four - Piss off...She's mine. (NSFW)
Chapter five - Early Mornings (NSFW)
Chapter six - Bath time (NSFW)
Chapter seven - Stress Reliever (NSFW)
Chapter eight - Beach Vacation (SFW part 1)
Chapter nine - Beach Vacation (NSFW part 2)
Chapter ten- Beach Vacation (NSFW part 3/Last part) Chapter eleven- Our Wedding (SFW)
Chapter twelve - Our Honeymoon (NSFW)
Chapter thirteen - Keep it a secret. (TW)
Tags - Alastor is a serial killer/ Cannibalism/ Traumatized wife/ Manipulative Alastor/ Keeping her mouth shut/ Graphic murder/ Lowkey yandere vibes/ Eating human flesh/ Trigger warnings all around
Eli note! Sorry for not updating for a while! This is part two to a fic I wrote a while ago on my Ao3, I never posted it on my Tumblr for some reason? Anyway you do need to read the first part to understand this one. Here is the link --
The kitchen smelled faintly of soap and supper, warm water running over her hands as she scrubbed the same plate for far longer than necessary. Outside, the evening sun still lingered over New Orleans, golden light pouring through the kitchen window.
And illuminating the shed.
Her eyes kept drifting back to it.
That ugly little wooden structure sitting behind the house like it had always been there. Like it was harmless. Ordinary.
Her stomach twisted.
Not sanitary for you in there, chère. Old nails. Rust. Splinters.
She had believed him.
God, she had believed him.
Her fingers tightened around the plate as another memory forced itself to the surface. Alastor standing at the stove humming cheerfully while cooking dinner. Two separate pans. Two separate meals.
Always separate.
He’d set her plate down with a pleased little smile and then sit across from her with his own meal. If she leaned over curiously, teasing that his looked better, he’d simply laugh and move the plate out of reach.
“No, no, darling. This one’s mine.”
Playful.
Lighthearted.
She thought it was some strange personal quirk.
Now the memory made bile rise in her throat.
Her breathing shallowed. She could almost smell blood that wasn’t there. See him dragging bodies across the grass in the dead of night while she slept peacefully in their bed.
The love of her life.
Her husband.
A murderer.
A cannibal.
The plate nearly slipped from her hands.
She quickly shut the water off, trying to steady herself, grabbing a towel to dry the dish. Focus. Just focus. Dry the plate. Put it away. Stop looking at the damn shed.
But her eyes lifted again anyway.
What was in there right now?
Bones?
Knives?
God—
“Evening, darling.”
She screamed.
The plate flew from her hands and shattered against the kitchen floor.
Her entire body jolted violently as she spun around. Alastor stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised slightly before a soft chuckle escaped him.
“My, my,” he said lightly, stepping into the kitchen. “Such a jumpy thing these days.”
Her heart hammered so hard it hurt.
He looked completely normal.
Suspenders hanging loose at his sides after work. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair slightly mussed from the humidity outside. His smile warm and familiar and devastatingly unchanged.
How?
How could he stand there looking so normal after telling her something so horrific?
If anything, he seemed happier lately. Lighter.
He sang around the house more now.
Held her more.
Kissed her temple while passing by.
Like confessing to murder had somehow eased him.
Meanwhile she felt like she was rotting from the inside out.
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered quickly, already crouching to pick up the broken pieces. “You startled me.”
“Clearly.”
Amusement colored his voice. He crossed the kitchen in easy strides, but the moment she reached toward a sharp shard, his hand closed gently around her wrist.
“Ah-ah.” His tone remained soft. “None of that.”
She froze instantly beneath his touch.
“I can pick it up,” she said too quickly.
“And risk those delicate little hands?” He sounded almost offended by the idea. “Absolutely not.”
He eased her upright before she could protest, guiding her back a step from the glass. His fingers lingered at her waist casually—lovingly—and she hated that her body still instinctively recognized the touch.
Hated that some part of her still wanted to lean into it.
“You’ve been terribly distracted lately,” he murmured.
The words sent panic fluttering through her chest. Did he know? Of course he knew. He noticed everything about her.
But he never said it directly.
Never acknowledged the fear sitting between them.
His dark eyes flicked briefly toward the window. Toward the shed.
Then back to her.
And he smiled.
Not threatening.
Not cruel.
She swallowed hard. “Just tired.”
“Mm.”
He didn’t call her a liar.
Didn’t press.
He simply reached up and smoothed a thumb along her cheek with unbearable tenderness.
“You worry too much.”
Before she could react, he leaned down and kissed her.
Soft.
Slow.
Familiar.
She stayed perfectly still.
Alastor paused almost imperceptibly against her mouth.
Just enough for her to realize he noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His hand remained gentle at her jaw anyway, his expression never wavering as he pulled back. If there was hurt beneath the surface, he buried it deep.
“There we are,” he said lightly, as though nothing at all was wrong. “Now run along and get ready for bed, chère. I’ll clean this up.”
She nodded too fast.
“Alright.”
Her voice sounded thin to her own ears.
The moment his hand slipped away, she moved. Almost hurried. She could feel his gaze following her as she crossed the kitchen, forcing herself not to outright flee.
But the second she stepped into the hallway and out of his sight, her composure cracked.
Her breathing turned shaky.
Her hands trembled violently.
Behind her, from the kitchen, she could hear him humming softly to himself while he cleaned up the shattered plate. Calm. Domestic. Pleasant.
Like he hadn’t just admitted days ago that he butchered men in the shed behind their home.
-------
She stood near the window in her nightgown, fingers curled tightly into the thin fabric at her sides as she stared out into the backyard. The shed sat motionless beneath the moonlight.
Plain.
Silent.
Monstrous.
Her stomach churned every time she looked at it.
The sound of footsteps climbing the stairs reached her ears, steady and unhurried. She stiffened instinctively, but at least this time she wasn’t startled. She heard him before he arrived.
Alastor entered the room a moment later, loosening his tie with one hand.
“Well now,” he said pleasantly, shutting the bedroom door behind him. “There’s a nightgown I haven’t seen in some time.”
She didn’t answer.
His reflection moved behind her in the window glass as he shrugged off his suspenders and draped them neatly over the chair in the corner. Calm. Routine. Domestic.
“You used to wear that one often during the winter,” he continued conversationally. “Though I suppose the weather’s a touch warm for it now…”
Still she said nothing.
He glanced at her briefly, but continued talking anyway, slipping easily into the comfortable chatter he always filled the evenings with.
“The station was dreadfully busy today. One of the technicians nearly tripped over an entire spool of wiring—”
“How many?”
The question cut through the room so abruptly it silenced everything.
Even the cicadas outside seemed quieter.
Alastor stopped midway through unbuttoning his cuffs.
For the first time that evening, the air felt genuinely still.
Slowly, he looked up at her.
She still hadn’t turned around.
Her eyes remained fixed on the shed outside.
“How many,” she repeated quietly.
He knew exactly what she meant.
A soft sigh escaped him.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Just thoughtful.
She shut her eyes briefly, nausea twisting in her stomach. The fact he had to think about it at all made her skin crawl.
Finally, he said, “I’m afraid I lost track some years ago.”
Some years ago.
God.
He sounded like a man discussing old grocery expenses.
He leaned casually against the dresser, folding his sleeves upward with neat precision. “Though if I had to estimate…” He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Perhaps somewhere in the twenties by now.”
Her breath caught sharply.
More than twenty men.
Dead.
At the hands of her husband.
She wrapped her arms around herself tightly, trying to stop the shudder that tore through her body.
Alastor blinked at her reaction before another chuckle escaped him. He waved a dismissive hand.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said lightly. “You didn’t *like* any of them.”
“What does that even mean?!” she whispered harshly.
Her voice shook.
Alastor, meanwhile, looked entirely relaxed.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, beginning to remove his shoes as though this were any ordinary conversation between husband and wife.
“Do you remember that little bar on Bourbon Street we visited some months ago?” he asked.
She stared at him.
He continued before she could answer.
“The jazz was atrocious. You complained the entire ride home.”
Despite herself, she vaguely remembered.
Then he looked up at her.
“Do you recall the gentleman near the door?” he asked mildly. “Large fellow. Smelled strongly of cigars.”
Her brows furrowed weakly as she searched her memory.
“He smacked your backside while you were leaving.”
The memory slammed into her all at once.
The crowded bar.
Her startled gasp.
Alastor guiding her quickly outside before she could make a scene.
She remembered being furious afterward. Embarrassed.
But Alastor had only smiled calmly and told her not to waste another thought on “poorly trained men.”
“Oh,” he said softly now, smiling faintly at the recollection. “I remembered him.”
Her blood ran cold.
Without breaking eye contact, he continued in the same pleasant tone he used discussing weather forecasts.
“I found him later that evening after you’d fallen asleep.” He adjusted his cuff absentmindedly. “Drunk as a skunk stumbling through an alleyway.”
Her hand slowly rose to cover her mouth.
Alastor’s smile thinned slightly with something darker. Colder.
“I gutted him so thoroughly the police couldn’t identify the body."
The room tilted.
A horrified gasp escaped her as she stumbled backward a step, hand clamped over her mouth.
My God.
My God.
And Alastor simply watched her.
Not ashamed.
Not remorseful.
If anything, he seemed faintly pleased with himself.
“He screamed for quite some time,” he added thoughtfully. “Though I imagine that happens when one’s intestines are hanging halfway onto the pavement.”
“Stop—”
Her voice cracked sharply.
Alastor paused.
Silence flooded the room.
She stared at him in absolute horror, eyes shining now with panic and disbelief. Her chest rose too fast, breaths becoming uneven.
Meanwhile he remained seated calmly at the foot of the bed, one ankle crossed over the other.
Like he’d just finished recounting a mildly amusing anecdote.
“You…you killed him because he touched me?” she whispered.
Alastor’s brows lifted slightly, as though the answer should’ve been obvious.
“Well yes.”
The simplicity of it made tears sting her eyes.
“That—that isn’t normal!”
“No,” he agreed easily. “Most husbands lack initiative.”
She made a strangled sound somewhere between fear and disbelief.
“Alastor—”
“What?” he asked, genuinely puzzled by her reaction now. “You were upset. He put his hands on my wife.”
The word my hit her like a threat.
Or maybe a promise.
She couldn’t tell anymore.
He rose smoothly from the bed and took a step toward her.
She immediately stepped back.
The movement was small.
The look on Alastor’s face shifted the moment he noticed where she’d been staring.
The shed.
Again.
His smile faded into something quieter. Understanding.
Then, with a soft sigh, he straightened from where he stood near the bed and held a hand out toward her.
“Come along now, chère.”
She blinked at him.
“What?”
But he was already heading for the bedroom door.
Panic curled immediately in her stomach.
She knew exactly where he was going.
“Alastor—”
He descended the stairs at an easy pace, and after only a second of hesitation, she hurried after him. Her pulse thundered louder with every step.
He opened the back door.
Warm night air rushed inside.
And there it was.
The shed stood in the darkness only a short walk away, moonlight catching along its roof.
She stopped dead on the back steps.
“No.”
Alastor glanced back at her.
“I don’t want to go in there,” she whispered immediately, shaking her head.
He tilted his head slightly, expression calm. “Darling, you’ve been staring at the poor thing for days now.”
Poor thing.
The absurdity of that nearly made her sick.
Alastor continued across the yard anyway, hands tucked neatly behind his back. She swallowed hard before quickly following him, unable to bear being left alone in the dark while he disappeared inside.
The grass crunched softly beneath her shoes.
The closer they got, the stronger the smell became.
Metallic.
Rotten beneath the earthiness of old wood.
Blood.
Her stomach lurched violently.
Alastor reached the door and smoothly unlocked it, the key turning with a soft click. Then—to her horror—he stepped aside.
Letting *her* open it.
“Go on,” he said gently.
She stared at him.
Then at the door.
Then back at him again.
He smiled sweetly at her.
Like this was normal.
Like he was inviting her into a garden shed full of tools.
Her hand trembled as she reached forward.
The smell hit her harder the second she cracked the door open.
Blood.
God—She pushed it wider.
And nearly collapsed.
The inside was horrifyingly neat.
Organized.
That somehow made it infinitely worse.
Hooks lined one wall.
Knives carefully arranged along another.
A heavy wooden table sat in the center of the room stained so deeply dark she knew no amount of scrubbing could remove it. Old blood soaked into the grain.
And hanging—Dear God.
Pieces.
Parts.
Human remains arranged with grotesque precision like butchered livestock.
Her eyes snapped toward the freezer shoved into the corner. Dark red smears stained the handle.
Blood stains everywhere.
Splattered across the floorboards.
Across the walls.
The metallic scent coated the back of her throat.
Something wet and horrible lurched in her stomach.
She slammed the door shut so hard the shed rattled.
A broken sob escaped her instantly.
“No—no no no—”
She stumbled backward, hands covering her mouth as tears spilled down her face. Her breathing turned sharp and frantic.
“Oh God—”
The world spun violently around her.
Alastor stepped toward her immediately, voice softening. “Darling—”
He reached for her.
She let out a panicked sound the second his arms touched her and violently wriggled away from him.
“No!”
The word tore out of her throat.
She stared at him through tears, horrified beyond words.
And Alastor looked…Heartbroken.
Only for a moment.
Then something else replaced it.
Something frantic beneath the smile he was desperately trying to maintain.
He stepped closer again, slowly this time, one hand lifting toward her face.
“I love you,” he said softly.
His fingers brushed her wet cheek.
She flinched.
His expression twitched.
“You must know that,” he continued quickly, voice tightening just slightly beneath its usual smoothness. “More than anything. More than anyone.”
She was sobbing openly now, breaths coming too fast to properly inhale.
“You’re insane,” she choked out.
His eyes widened faintly at that.
Then he laughed softly.
Not offended.
Almost affectionate.
“Well,” he murmured, “perhaps a little.”
“Alastor—those are people in there!”
“Yes.”
He said it so easily.
Like she’d commented on the weather.
Her stomach twisted violently again.
“How can you—how can you stand there and act like this is normal?!”
His smile finally strained at the edges.
“Because it *is* normal to me.”
The honesty in that answer terrified her more than the shed had.
She stumbled backward another step.
Alastor followed immediately.
Not threatening.
But there was something deeply wrong in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her. Intense. Feverish. Possessive.
“I did those things for a reason,” he said quietly.
“You butchered people!”
“I protected you.”
“You *killed* them!”
“And I would do it again.”
His voice sharpened suddenly for the first time all night.
Passionate.
Certain.
“They looked at you,” he continued, eyes almost wild now beneath the moonlight. “They touched you. They thought they could speak to you however they pleased.”
He cupped her face suddenly, hands warm against her cold skin.
She froze.
“I hear the things men say about you,” he whispered. “Do you know how difficult it is for me to tolerate that? To watch them leer at my wife like animals?”
His thumbs brushed beneath her eyes, smearing tears.
“I can’t bear it.”
His expression had become almost desperate now.
Raw.
“Most of them die because of that,” he admitted softly. “The rest…” His smile twitched upward faintly. “Well. It’s a pleasant bonus they cook so beautifully.”
A horrified sound left her throat.
“Jesus Christ—”
“Oh, don’t look so frightened.” He sounded genuinely distressed by her reaction now. “I would never harm *you.*”That was the problem."
That was exactly the problem.
He was saying all of this with love.
Devotion.
Like murdering men and carving them apart was merely another extension of how deeply he adored her.
“I did it because I love you,” he repeated, eyes locked onto hers with terrifying intensity. “Can’t you understand that?”
She couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The moonlight caught the blood stains still smeared faintly near the bottom of the shed door behind him.
And Alastor stood in front of it looking at her like she was the center of his entire universe.
-------
At some point, she stopped looking at the shed every time she passed the kitchen window.
She couldn’t pinpoint when it happened exactly.
Maybe it was gradual.
Maybe the horror simply exhausted itself.
Or maybe it was because Alastor never changed.
That was the strangest part of all of this. After the confession, after the tears, after the nights she’d spent staring at the ceiling wondering who exactly she had married… he remained the same man.
Still kissed her forehead before leaving for work.
Still brought flowers home just because they matched her dress.
Still sang softly while shaving in the mornings.
Still held her at night like she was something precious.
And perhaps that should have terrified her more than anything else.
Instead… she adapted.
Not because she approved.
God no.
Sometimes she still woke in the middle of the night with the image of that shed flashing behind her eyes. Sometimes she still caught the metallic scent of blood on one of his discarded shirts and felt nauseous for a moment.
But then Alastor would smile at her.
Or laugh softly when she teased him.
Or pull her into his lap while reading the newspaper.
And the fear dulled beneath the weight of love.
The men he killed were horrible.
That mattered.
They were cruel men. Dangerous men. Men who hurt women and children and anyone weaker than themselves. Men whose disappearances never truly saddened anyone.
That mattered too.
At least… that’s what she told herself.
Over and over again.
Enough times that eventually she almost believed it without effort.
It became easier if she treated it like one of his stranger habits.
Like how he left books scattered all over the sitting room.
Or forgot to wipe his shoes before coming inside after rainstorms.
Or hummed incessantly while cooking.
Just another unpleasant little quirk belonging to her otherwise wonderful husband.
As long as she didn’t see the shed.As long as she didn’t think too hard.
She could live with it.
Somehow.
The shift happened slowly after that.
One evening he came home with blood splattered across the cuff of his white shirt and she had sighed in annoyance before she even realized what she was doing.
“Alastor.”
He looked up from hanging his coat. “Mm?”
“You got blood on this one again.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
Not because she’d mentioned the blood.
But because her tone sounded so…normal.
She walked over, taking his wrist and examining the stain with a small frown. “This is one of your nicer shirts.”
A slow smile spread across his face then. Soft. Almost disbelieving.
“My apologies, chère.”
“You should apologize to *me,*” she muttered, already rolling the sleeve upward. “I’m the one scrubbing it out.”
His eyes stayed fixed on her the entire time.
Tender.
Adoring.
Dangerously relieved.
Another time, she’d noticed the shed unlocked while bringing laundry inside. Her stomach still twisted faintly walking near it, but instead of spiraling into panic, she’d simply shut the door firmly and locked it.
Then later that evening:
“You forgot the shed.”
Alastor looked up from his book.
“…You locked it?”
“Well someone had to.”
The smile he gave her afterward was almost frightening in its intensity.
God, he loved her.
He loved her so much it bordered on madness.
And perhaps she loved him enough to follow him into it.
Eventually she started touching him again without hesitation.
That was what truly told her things were changing.
The first time she slid her arms around his waist from behind while he cooked dinner, he’d gone perfectly still.
Not tense.
Stunned.
“You’ll burn the food,” she’d teased lightly against his shoulder.
He turned his head slowly to look at her, eyes almost searching her face for uncertainty.
But there was none.
Not anymore.
So he smiled.
And kissed her knuckles one by one.
After that, things resumed almost frighteningly easily.
She wore her slips to bed again.Curled against him at night again.
Flirted with him across the breakfast table until he laughed into his coffee.
Sometimes she even caught herself forgetting entirely.
Until she noticed a blood stain beneath his fingernails.
Or heard distant noises from the shed late at night.
Then reality would briefly resurface before sinking again beneath routine.
Love was a terrifying thing.
It made monsters feel familiar.
The moment that truly disturbed her, though, came months later during supper.
Alastor sat across from her at the dining table, relaxed and content after a long day. He’d made roast for himself and something lighter for her as usual.
As always.
She stared at his plate for a long moment.
Then finally sighed.
“Oh honestly,” she muttered. “You’ve been eating in front of me for years.”
Alastor looked up curiously.
Before he could ask, she reached over with her fork.
His hand caught her wrist instantly.
Not rough.
Just immediate.
Their eyes met.
For the first time in months, uncertainty flickered across his face.
“Darling,” he said carefully.
“It’s fine.”
His gaze searched hers.
“You don’t have to do this for me.”
The fact he sounded genuinely concerned almost made her laugh.
“I know.”
Slowly… cautiously… he released her wrist.
The room felt strangely quiet afterward.
She cut off a small piece.
God.
She knew exactly what it was.
A person.
Some terrible man whose face she’d never know.
Whose life had ended in that awful shed.
Her stomach twisted once.
Then she put the bite into her mouth.
Alastor didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
She chewed slowly.
The flavor was rich. Smoky. Tender.
Oddly normal.
After a moment she swallowed.
And blinked.
“…Tastes like chicken.”
Silence.Then Alastor laughed. Loudly. Almost fondly.
And when she looked up at him, the expression on his face made her chest tighten.
Pure love.
Pure devotion.
Like she had just accepted the darkest part of him and found it worthy of staying anyway.
“My dear,” he murmured softly, eyes practically glowing with affection, “you have no idea how happy you’ve just made me.”
And horrifyingly—She thought maybe she was happy too.
------
I hope you all enjoyed!! I will definitely be adding to this in later times. Murder Husband who loves his wife and his wife not caring that hes a murderer? So amazing. ANYWAY. My birthday is on May 29th and im SOOOO excited.
I LOVE YOUR WRITING PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CONTINUE YOUR "MARRIED LIFE" FANFIC I NEED AN UPDATE SOON OR I'M GOING TO EARN INTO ASHES FROM LONGING 😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺
I HEAR YOU MY CHILDREN I HEAR YOUR CRIES
I adore my Married Life fic, but most of it is like...hard-core smut and yeah, I loved writing that but im in a "no smut headspace" right now.
I can continue writing for that fic if you guys are okay with fluff and angst?
I didn't know because the people that do enjoy the series are mostly looking for smut WHICH ISNT BAD- Im just taking a short break from it🥺
Ill leave it up yo you guys
Should I continue Married Life, even though there won't be smut?
YESSS- Idc about the smut, its amazing without it!!
I felt a bit unfomfy with it and thought it wasnt too well writen. Since it was self insert i didn't know if people would like it or not. Plus it was super smutty and im not sure if id like to make smutty content anymore, so if I released that people would expect that of me
Ugh I know I've been doing a bunch of updates and it's annoying, but I like to keep yall in the loop!!
So for my birthday (May 29th) I wanted to do a fic of my OC and Alastor, I got a bunch of comments saying people would like that but I ALSO got a bunch of Dm's telling me that the idea is stupid and they won't read it...
Like I wish I was joking I got over 5 DM's of people saying they wouldn't read it. And I love my followers so i'll listen.
Instead i'll do a self insert fic, I'll keep the name calling to a minimum so people can still see it as x reader-
I just made a hell design for myself so I wanted to use that :D But I'll try to keep it as reader friendly as I can but still adding a bit of myself in there.
I hope yall will like it, If not I'll keep it plain and simple and just use x reader like last year :D
Synopsis - Alastors lovley, curvy wife has suggested losing weight? Oh heavens no. Alastor has always adored her curves and now shes trying to rid herself of them? That just wont do!
Tags - Curvy reader/Human Alastor/ Husband Alastor/ Alastor is a little shit/ Very devoted Alastor/ Diets gone wrong/ A little bit of groping/ Not NSFW
I can't believe this got inspired off a clip I saw of a movie on YouTube shorts....I have no idea what the movie was but I thought it was so Alastor coded. Huge headcannon that Alastor likes curvy women...
The morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows in warm gold streaks, catching dust in the air and illuminating the little home he'd worked so hard to provide. The radio hummed softly from the living room. Bacon grease still lingered faintly in the air from breakfast.
And there she was.
Bent over the counter in nothing but her slip.
My eyes had scarcely moved from her all morning.
Well— perhaps technically they had. The newspaper remained open in my lap, one leg crossed neatly over the other, spectacles perched at the bridge of my nose. To any observer, I was deeply invested in current events.
In reality, I had reread the same paragraph three times.
How could I focus on world affairs with that wandering around my kitchen?
Her slip clung to every lovely curve as she scrubbed furiously at some stubborn stain on the countertop, muttering little irritated things under her breath. Soft hips swayed each time she leaned harder into the rag. Plush thighs brushed together. The morning light practically adored her skin.
Good Lord.
I lowered the paper just slightly.
My gaze lingered shamelessly over the curve of her backside.
Beautiful.
Absolutely devastating.
The sort of figure sculptors spent their entire lives attempting to capture and still failed miserably.
And she belonged to me.
A small huff escaped her.
I quickly lifted the newspaper back up before she could catch me staring like some common degenerate. Though, admittedly, marriage granted me certain privileges.
“Damn thing won’t come out...” she muttered.
“Mhm,” I answered absently.
Another irritated scrub.
Then suddenly—
“Alastor.”
Something in her tone made me finally glance up properly.
She stood upright now, hands on her hips, cheeks faintly flushed from exertion. There was determination in her expression.
Never a promising sign.
“Yes, darling?”
She sighed
.“I think I’m going to lose weight.”
...Excuse me?
I blinked at her over the top of the paper.
“You’re going to what?”
“I’m serious.” She tossed the rag into the sink dramatically. “I mean it this time.”
This time?
This time?
How many times had she apparently contemplated this horrifying course of action without my knowledge?
I slowly folded the newspaper down into my lap.
“Well now, chère, whatever for?”
She stared at me like the answer was obvious.
“My dresses barely fit properly anymore. Everything has to be tailored.” She gestured vaguely toward herself. “I get tired too easily, I’m too heavy, and honestly...” Her voice dipped quieter. “It’s not flattering.”
I nearly choked.
Not flattering?
Was she blind?
I looked at her standing there in that thin little slip, soft stomach peeking beneath the fabric, breasts full and plush, thighs thick enough to make a preacher lose his faith, and felt briefly convinced insanity had entered my household.
“Darling,” I started carefully, “you cannot possibly—”
“No.” She pointed at me immediately. “Don’t start.”
I paused.
“Don’t start what?”
“The sweet talking.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You always do that. I’m being serious.”
“I am also being serious.”
“Well I don’t want to hear it.” She crossed her arms tighter. “I’m really going to do it this time, Alastor. And you are not going to talk me out of it.”
The audacity.
I stared at her.
Talk her out of it?
As though that were not precisely what a loving husband ought to do when his wife announced plans for self-destruction over breakfast.
I set the newspaper aside completely and leaned forward in my chair.
“My dear, you are being utterly ridiculous. You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever—”
“Nonsense.”
I sputtered.“Nonsense?!”
“Yes, nonsense.” She grabbed the edge of her skirt from the nearby chair and started toward the staircase. “You say that because you love me.”
“Well naturally I love you, but that hardly makes it untrue!”
She was already halfway up the stairs.
“I’m starting today!”
“Today?!”
“Yes!”
I stared after her in disbelief as her footsteps disappeared down the hall upstairs.
Then silence.
The kitchen suddenly felt much too still.
Slowly, I leaned back into my chair.
No.
No, this simply would not do.
Lose weight?
My eyes drifted toward the staircase with growing concern.
All that softness...Those gorgeous hips I held each night.
The plushness of her stomach beneath my palm in bed.
The way her thighs spread so beautifully across my lap whenever she sat with me.
Gone?
Absolutely not.
I frowned deeply.
What deranged fool had put such ideas into her pretty little head?
She was perfect exactly as she was.
Better than perfect.
And frankly, I had grown rather attached to certain features of my wife. I considered it a matter of personal investment.
My gaze slowly shifted toward the kitchen cabinets.
Then toward the icebox.
Then the pantry.
A thought occurred to me.
Slowly... very slowly...I smiled.
Well.
If my darling wife insisted upon embarking on this unfortunate little diet......then I supposed I would simply have to ensure it failed spectacularly.
-----
I had underestimated how serious she was about this nonsense.
Truly.
I arrived home that afternoon to find the kitchen table absolutely littered with dreadful little packages and tins.
“Low fat.”
“Reduced sugar.”
“Diet.”
“Light.”
Light?
Food was not meant to be light. Food was meant to nourish the soul. To comfort. To delight. To be cooked properly with butter and cream and flavor instead of tasting like sadness and cardboard.
My wife stood at the counter unpacking her bags with entirely too much determination.
“Oh! Alastor, could you hand me that box?”
I stared at the offensively tiny package of “diet biscuits” in her hand like it had personally insulted me.
Still, I smiled pleasantly and handed it over.
“Of course, darling.”
She seemed oddly proud of herself.
“I even found recipes,” she informed me. “Healthy ones.”
Recipes.Healthy recipes.
I felt my eye twitch.
“How... lovely.”
She completely missed my tone. “I’m going to start counting calories too.”
Calories.
There was that word again.
I watched her carefully stack her ridiculous little foods away in the pantry while mentally planning a murder.
Not hers, obviously.
Whoever invented diet culture.
The woman looked beautiful standing there in our kitchen. Her dress strained softly across the fullness of her hips, sleeves rolled up as she organized things with focused determination. Every movement made something soft shift or sway.
And she wanted to lessen herself.
Absurd.
Utterly absurd.
She finally glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t touch my snacks.”
I blinked innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Apparently I had not sounded convincing enough.
“Alastor.”
“My dear.”
“You’re not going to sabotage this.”
The accusation nearly offended me.
“Sabotage? I am wounded.”
“You keep looking at my food like it insulted your family.”
“Well, it certainly insulted me.”
She snorted despite herself and shook her head. “I’m serious.”
And there it was again.That determined little look.
The same one she got whenever she decided she was absolutely correct about something despite being painfully wrong.
I rose from my chair and crossed the kitchen toward her slowly.
Her eyes lifted to mine.
I rested my hands carefully on her waist.
God.
Even through the fabric of her dress she felt soft and warm and perfect.
My thumbs stroked unconsciously against her sides.
“Darling,” I said gently, “I truly wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
Her expression softened for exactly half a second before she sighed.
“There you go again.”
“It is not a crime to admire my own wife.”
“You admire me because you’re biased.”
“I admire you because I possess eyes.”
That earned a reluctant smile.
Victory.
Small, but meaningful.
Still, she slipped from my grasp before I could continue my argument.
“I’m sticking to it this time.”
And then she carried her vile little “healthy” snacks upstairs.
I stood in the kitchen alone for several long moments.
Then slowly turned my gaze toward the pantry.
Toward the labels.
Toward the ingredients.
And smiled
The next morning, I took a pleasant little stroll into town.
Now see, contrary to what my darling wife might believe, I did not object to healthy food itself. If she wished to eat leaves and dry crackers, that was her business. I’d eat the dreadful things myself if necessary.
No, the issue was entirely different.
The issue was her.
Her lovely body.
Her softness.
The beautiful fullness I adored with every selfish fiber of my being.
She spoke of herself as though she were flawed. As though the curve of her stomach beneath my hand each night was something unfortunate. As though the plushness of her thighs was a failing instead of one of God’s greatest achievements.
No.
I could not allow that sort of thinking to continue unchecked.
So naturally, I took action.
The little grocer looked entirely too cheerful as I purchased duplicates of nearly everything she’d bought the day prior.
Same packaging.
Same brands.
Only these versions contained proper ingredients.
Sugar.
Butter.
Cream.
As nature intended.
By the time I returned home, she was upstairs bathing.
Perfect.I hummed softly under my breath as I unpacked my purchases onto the counter.Then the real work began.
Carefully, meticulously, I swapped nearly every item.
The healthy biscuits disappeared first, replaced with the originals.
Then the “low calorie” chocolates.
Then the bread.
Then the preserves.
And perhaps my proudest achievement—A bottle of syrup.
I uncorked both bottles carefully before switching the labels with near surgical precision.
Honestly, radio work had blessed me with wonderfully steady hands.
The calorie labels, however...Now those required artistry.
I sat at the kitchen table with white-out and a fountain pen, adjusting numbers with the concentration of a man forging government documents.
400 became 40.
320 became 80.
My grin widened gradually with each alteration.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
By the time she descended the stairs again, every trace of my crimes had vanished.
She wandered sleepily into the kitchen tying the sash of her robe.
And immediately reached for one of the biscuits.
I watched with shameless anticipation.
She took a bite.
Chewed thoughtfully.
Then blinked.
“Huh.”
I folded my newspaper calmly. “Something wrong, chère?”
“These healthy ones don’t taste bad at all.”
I nearly smiled too quickly.
“Really?”
“Usually diet food tastes like sawdust.” Another bite. “These are actually good.”
Well yes.
Because they were the same biscuits she’d been eating for three years.
I made a thoughtful humming noise. “Perhaps your palate is improving.”
“Mhm.”
She reached for a second one.
My heart soared.
------
The kitchen was warm.
Warm from the stove, warm from the summer air drifting through the open windows, warm from the low simmering pot filling the entire house with spice and butter and heaven itself.
Now this was proper cooking.
Not those miserable little diet biscuits.
I stirred the pot with satisfaction, humming softly beneath my breath as the roux thickened beautifully. Shrimp, sausage, onion, celery, bell pepper—proper ingredients. Honest ingredients.
Gumbo.
A meal with dignity.
The knife moved swiftly beneath my hand as I chopped green onions against the cutting board, singing quietly in French under my breath. Something old my mother used to hum in the kitchen.
Honestly, I was in an excellent mood.
Two arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
I smiled immediately.
“Well now,” I murmured.
Her cheek pressed against my shoulder blade while she leaned into me with a content little sigh. Soft. Warm. Sweet smelling from her bath.
My favorite thing in the world.
“It smells amazing,” she mumbled sleepily.
"Of course it does. I made it.”
She laughed softly through her nose.
I tilted my head enough to press a kiss against her hair before tossing the chopped onions into the pot with a flourish. The sizzle that followed was deeply satisfying.
Behind me, she gave another appreciative hum.God, I loved that sound.
That pleased little noise she made whenever she liked my cooking.
There was pride in it for me. Stupid amounts of pride, frankly. I worked hard on my meals. And seeing her eat them—watching her eyes light up, hearing her praise, watching her go back for seconds—Lord above.
It made something warm settle in my chest every single time.
So naturally, when she spoke next, I nearly dropped the spoon.
“It’s too bad I can’t eat it.”
I stopped stirring.
Slowly, I turned my head.
“I beg your pardon?”
She had already stepped away from me, moving to lean against the counter casually.
Entirely too casually for someone who had just uttered complete insanity.
She smiled apologetically. “It looks really good though.”
I stared at her.
Then at the pot.
Then back at her.
“I used your favorite sausage.”
“I know.”
“And shrimp.”
“I know.”
“And the bread is fresh.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
SWEETHEART?
My eye twitched.
“Then why,” I asked carefully, “can you not eat it?”
She gestured vaguely around the kitchen like the answer was obvious.
“You used butter. And sausage grease. And probably cream.” She pointed accusingly at the counter. “And those rolls are definitely not healthy.”
Well yes.
Obviously.
Food was meant to contain joy.
She smiled again, entirely unaware she was approaching mortal danger. “It’s okay though! I’ll just make myself something else.”
Something else.
Something else?!
I looked down at the gumbo bubbling away on the stove.
At the meal I had spent nearly two hours making.
Then back at my wife.
The woman who usually hovered around the kitchen stealing bites directly from the spoon.
The woman who moaned happily over my cooking like it was a religious experience.
The woman who once declared my jambalaya “better than sex.”
And now she was refusing dinner because of calories?
I set the spoon down very slowly.
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“Alastor—”
“You are not making yourself separate food.”
Her brows lifted. “Why not?”
“Because I cooked dinner.”
“Yes, but I can’t eat all that—”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m dieting!”
The word hit me like a personal insult.
I turned fully toward her now, hands braced against the counter behind me.
“You have been ‘dieting’ for exactly one week and already you are refusing my gumbo.”
“Well when you say it like that—”
“How else should I say it?!”
She looked momentarily startled by my genuine offense.
Good.
Perhaps she ought to be.
I pointed dramatically toward the stove.
“That pot contains love, effort, skill, and at least six dollars worth of shrimp.”
She snorted.
I ignored her entirely.
“And furthermore,” I continued, “you adore my cooking.”
“I do adore your cooking.”
“Then eat it.”
“I can’t!”
“Yes you can!”
“It’s unhealthy!”
“It is delicious!”
“That’s not the same thing!”
“To me it is!”
She laughed again despite herself, and I felt briefly victorious before she shook her head stubbornly.
“No. I’m serious this time.”
There was that phrase again.
This time.
As though she expected permanence from this foolishness.
I watched her standing there in one of her soft house dresses, arms crossed beneath her chest, looking determined while the smell of gumbo filled the entire room.
And suddenly—I was irritated.
Not at her.
Never truly at her.
At the fact she was denying herself things she loved because somewhere along the way she’d become convinced she was meant to take up less space.
Less food.
Less softness.
Less joy.
My chest tightened strangely.
I crossed the kitchen in a few steps.
She looked up at me immediately.
Before she could protest, I cupped her face gently.
“My darling,” I said quietly, “there is nothing on this earth sadder than watching someone you love refuse happiness while standing directly in front of it.”
Her expression faltered slightly.
I softened my grip, thumb brushing her cheek.
“You enjoy my cooking.”
“Well...yes.”
“And I enjoy feeding you.”
A faint flush crept into her cheeks.
Good.
“Now,” I continued firmly, “sit down before I take this personally.”
“You *are* taking it personally.”
“Correct.” I pulled out her chair for her with exaggerated politeness. “Sit.”
------
She ate exactly one bowl.
One.
A tiny little bowl that looked more appropriate for feeding a particularly sick bird than a grown woman.
I watched her finish it with narrowed eyes from across the table.
She practically mourned the final bite.
“That was so good,” she sighed miserably, setting the spoon down. “God, I want more.”
“Then have more.”
“I can’t.”
“You absolutely can.”
“I already had enough.”
Enough?
I looked down at her nearly empty bowl.
My eye twitched.
“Darling,” I said slowly, “I’ve seen children eat more than that.”
“Well children aren’t trying to lose weight.”
There it was again.
That phrase.
That awful, irritating phrase.
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms, studying her while she wistfully eyed the pot on the stove like a heartbroken widow.
She wanted more.
Clearly enjoyed more.
Would be happier with more.
And yet she denied herself simply because some arbitrary number apparently mattered more than joy.
Madness.
Complete madness.
Still, I said nothing.
For now.
—-----
Later that night, I stepped into our bedroom while loosening my tie.
The lamps cast everything in soft amber light. Jazz crackled quietly from the radio near the window.
The scent of her powder lingered faintly in the air.
And there she stood before the vanity mirror in nothing but her bra and panties.
I stopped immediately.
Lord have mercy.
My gaze drifted over her slowly.
Soft thighs.
Round hips.
The gentle curve of her stomach beneath her hands as she frowned at herself in the mirror.
Beautiful.
Absolutely, painfully beautiful.
She squished at the softness of her tummy with visible annoyance.
“I haven’t lost anything,” she muttered.
I leaned against the doorway silently, beginning to undo my tie while shamelessly admiring the view.
“What a tragedy,” I drawled.
She glanced at me through the mirror with a pout.
“I’m serious.”
“Mhm.”
“I shouldn’t have eaten that gumbo.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it nearly hurt.
There she went again.
As though the gumbo had personally betrayed her instead of bringing her visible happiness.
I pushed off the doorway and crossed the room toward her slowly.
My tie slipped free from my collar while I approached.
She watched me in the mirror.
I watched her.
Then finally I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist.
God.
Perfect.
My hands spread across her stomach instinctively, savoring the softness beneath my palms while I lowered my head to kiss her shoulder.
She sighed immediately.
“There,” I murmured against her skin. “That sound right there tells me I’m correct.”
“Alastor…”
Another kiss.
“You are lovely.”
Kiss.
“Soft.”
Kiss.
"Warm.”
Kiss.
“Entirely irresistible.”
A faint blush crept across her cheeks.
Victory.
My hands slid slowly along her sides, worshipful without even meaning to be. I simply liked touching her. Constantly. Every curve felt made specifically for my hands.
“You know,” I mused, “I truly cannot fathom this strange little obsession you’ve developed.”
She huffed softly. “It’s not strange.”
“You’re standing in front of a mirror criticizing perfection.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I am a dramatic man.”
She giggled quietly.
There it was.
That lovely sound.
I smiled against her shoulder before continuing my assault.
“Those hips alone ought to be framed in a museum.”
“Oh my God.”
“And your thighs?” I hummed approvingly. “Good heavens.”
“Alastor!”
“What? I’m married, not blind.”
Her face grew redder by the second while I continued kissing lazily across her shoulders and neck.
“And this stomach…” My hands smoothed slowly over it. “Do you know how often I think about this stomach?”
She made a strangled noise.
“Probably an unhealthy amount, frankly.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you married me.”
She laughed harder now, leaning back into my chest despite herself.
Good.Excellent.
I continued murmuring praise against her skin until she was practically melting in my arms.
Every compliment made her softer.
Every kiss made her less tense.
And God, I adored seeing her relax beneath affection.
Finally she shook her head with a shy little smile.
“Do you really like how I look?”
I blinked.
Did I…Really…Like how she looked?
I turned her gently in my arms until she faced me fully.
“Darling,” I said, genuinely baffled, “I am one step away from worshipping you in a church.”
She burst into laughter.
I smiled smugly at the sound.
“You are quite literally my favorite thing to look at.”
Her expression softened immediately.
Then came that shy little giggle again as she glanced away from me.
“Well…” She bit her lip slightly. “I suppose maybe I don’t need the diet anymore then.”
Silence.
My entire face lit up instantly.
“Attagirl.”
Before she could react, a playful growl rumbled from my chest as I grabbed her around the waist and hauled her clean over my shoulder.
She shrieked with startled laughter.
“ALASTOR!”
“That’s my clever girl!”
“Put me down!”
“Never!”
I carried her toward the bed effortlessly while she dissolved into giggles against my back.
Then tossed her onto the mattress dramatically.
The springs squeaked beneath her.
I loosened the rest of my collar while staring down at her with a grin far too sharp to be respectable.
“Oh, chère…” I climbed onto the bed slowly, catching one of her ankles and dragging her laughing body toward me. “Do you have any idea how pleased you’ve just made me?”
She squealed again as I leaned over her.
“I think,” I purred, kissing her knee first, “you deserve to be absolutely adored tonight.”
So. I just finished playing Omori. and...I'm fucking devastated.
I want to yap and yap and yap about it but no ones into it anymore bc it was all the rage in like...2020 but I JUST played it. Took me 20 hours but fuck it was worth it.
I cried...several times.
And now I crave fanfics. If anyone has any fanfictions pls. HAND THEM OVER
I know lots of people won't be interested in this, but idc bc I know my real ones will appreciate updates.
So commissions are still a thing, but right now I'm only accepting fluff or angst commissions, no smut.
Some stuff has gone on in my life; I won't bore you all with the details, but I'm taking a break from smut at the moment. I just can't write it right now. I'm sorry :(
The art contest is still going on! If you wanted to make Eli's new PFP, just DM me either here or on my Instagram @Jennie_Miller777
I love talking to my fans and my supporters so If you wanna talk, just DM me! I'm usually free and I'll always reply- If you need advice or just need to rant about something, I'm here :D
Aright- thats enough of Eli Yapping- MY BIRTHDAY IS SO SOOOONN
hello everyone! It's Eli! I apologize for the lack of posts, I'll get on that soon but I just thought of a fun little thing my artists could do😝
I really want a new pfp of ME but I hate all photos of me so I thought, i could draw it! Turns out I suck at drawing myself....I can draw Alastor naked but can't draw myself...
Soooo....I thought maybe my community of super talented people could have a go! It could be a little contest if yall were interested🥺
Just DM me saying youre interested, ill send you a few photos of myself and when youre done ill keep it until June 30th and choose my favorite🌈
This isnt paid unfortunately theres no real prize unless you consider me praising the shit outta you a prize. Its just a fun little thing. And plus, all the DM'ers kinda get a face reveal😀
Anyway. Just DM me, if youre having trouble comment and ill see to it
I really hope yall will want to, its my birthday on May 29th so think of it as a birthday present to your favorite writer (im joking)
The kind where devotion borders on obsession, where love isn't just tender—it's consuming.
"I'd do anything for you, love," he murmurs, voice smooth, unwavering. "Anything you desire, and it's yours."
And the other doesn't hesitate, voice laced with something raw, something desperate.
"I want her to split me open—dig her fingers into my ribs and pry them apart. To hold my heart in her hands, feel the pulse of it against her palms, my blood staining her skin. I want her to pick my bones clean, crack them open, suck the marrow dry. I want to be ruined by her, consumed until there's nothing left of me but the taste of her name on what's left of my tongue."
Because love, when it’s deep enough, is a hunger—one that begs to be fed.
Hello! So...My birthday is coming up, May 29th...and I was wondering if yall would be interested in something
I've been wanting to write a fic about my OC and her lore with Alastor but I'm worried people won't like it so I just didn't...
But since its my birthday soon, should I post a little something like that? See if y'all like it, if you do, I'll write a whole thing, if not, I'll scrap it :D
(I just love yapping about her sm, literally if u hit me up and ask me to yap about her I will GO ON AND ON. She's like...my only OC...)
