The Chains Around Her Heart
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel
Pairing: Alastor x fem reader.
Content: Mentions of blood, slightly descriptive scene of stitching a wound, P in V, fingering, smut with a PLOT.
Summary: Alastor owns the readers soul, yet he never takes advantage of it. She comes to the hotel to speak to him, only to find him in his room stitching his own wound with shaky hands.
Word count: 10,213 words 58,635 characters
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In her previous life, Y/N was a WWI nurse who grew tired of the relentless, unwelcome jests from the soldiers under her care. Eventually, her patience finally snapped. She began "treating" her most inappropriate patients with lethal injections of carbolic acid. The resulting wave of agonizing organ failure went unnoticed in the chaos of war for a time, but her grim work eventually caught up with her, securing her a permanent station in Hell.
When she descended into the flickering, red depths of the Pit, she didn't recoil in horror. Instead, she found herself captivated by her new reflection, a demonic form that felt far more honest than her human image. Without a hint of fear, she stepped into her new life, finding an immediate job at Rosie’s Emporium. In the heart of Cannibal Town, her steady hands and lack of a moral compass made her a perfect fit for the brutality of the neighborhood.
It was within the polished walls of the Emporium that she caught the eye of Alastor. The Radio Demon was instantly captivated by her, and within weeks, he held the leash to her soul. Yet, to the surprise of many, he never used his power with cruelty. Instead, he treated her soul like a rare, precious heirloom, preferring her willing company to forced servitude.
He could treat her exactly like Husk if he wanted, but he chose not to. Instead, he only asked her to visit him for the occasional favor, yet even then, she always had the right to say no it.
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It was a typical Thursday, and following their routine, Y/N arrived at the Hazbin Hotel to visit Alastor. She passed by the chaos of the hotel lobby, moving with the practiced grace of a nurse through a hospital. When she entered his room, she found him slumped in his armchair, his shadow hovering anxiously nearby. Even the fearsome Radio Demon looked human in that moment, his fingers fumbling with a needle as he attempted to stitch a jagged wound across his chest. It was a rare sight of vulnerability that he quickly tried to mask with a strained grin.
Alastor’s head snapped toward the door, his wide, permanent grin tightening as the jazz filtering from his bedside radio gave a sharp, melodic stutter.
"Ah! Y/N, my dear! I’m afraid you haven’t picked the best moment for a social call," he chirped, his voice crackling with a layer of static that betrayed his strain. Despite his bravado, his composure was clearly fraying.
He turned back to the jagged tear in his chest, but his long, dark claws lacked their usual steadiness. The needle slipped from his grasp, clinking sharply against the floorboards. A small testament to a rare moment of weakness.
"Oh, it's quite alright, Al. Would you like some help?" she asked, her voice dipping into the calm, clinical tone of her past life. She tilted her head, watching his shadow flicker with agitation as she stepped into his personal space without a hint of fear. Kneeling with practiced ease, she plucked the fallen needle from the floorboards.
She didn't wait for an invitation, she knew the pride of the Radio Demon was a fragile thing, but her hands were those of a woman who had stitched thousands of men back together amidst falling mortar shells. She looked up at him, the silver needle held between her fingers, silently daring him to refuse her expertise.
"Hm… well, I suppose I could use a bit of assistance," he hummed, his voice crackling with a static-heavy sigh. It was a rare, low admission for the Radio Demon, and he finally leaned back into the red velvet of his armchair, his hands dropping to his sides in a gesture of surrender.
As she moved closer, the air around him smelled of copper and whiskey. He watched her with curious intensity, his permanent grin softening in her gaze. For a man who owned her soul, he seemed remarkably content to let her take the lead, his shadow settling into a watchful, protective stillness behind them.
Eventually, she dragged a stool from beside his dresser, the legs scraping against the floorboards as she positioned herself directly in front of him. Sitting down, she leaned in close, her eyes narrowing with professional scrutiny as she assessed the damage. The wound was jagged, pulsing with a faint heat that would have intimidated anyone else.
"Did you even attempt to clean it?" she asked, her voice dry with the unimpressed tone of a seasoned field nurse.
Alastor let out a sharp, crackling bark of a laugh, the sound distorted by the static of his radio-like voice. "Why, of course I didn't, my dear! What do I look like? A man with nothing better to do than fret over a bit of spilled ink?" He leaned back, his grin widening as he watched her, seemingly more amused by her bedside manner than concerned by the hole in his chest.
She rolled her eyes with the practiced patience of her past. "Washcloth, please?" she requested, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Alastor let out a sharp sigh, clearly unaccustomed to taking orders in his own quarters, but he snapped his fingers with a crisp crack. In an instant, a clean cloth materialized in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured, already reaching for the open bottle of whiskey on his dresser. She doused the rag, the sharp scent of alcohol cutting through the heavy smell of copper.
As she pressed the soaked cloth against the jagged edges of the wound, Alastor’s grin flickered, his radio violently stuttering in the corner.
Alastor remained still as she worked, his eyes tracking the rhythmic movement of her hands with a predatory yet fascinated focus. The usual static hum of his presence settled into a low, purring vibration.
Despite the sting of the whiskey, he didn't offer a single protest. Instead, he seemed to lean into the pain, savoring the rare sensation of being cared for, or perhaps just the idea of someone being so unafraid of his broken edges.
"You're… better at this than I thought you'd be," he finally remarked, the sharp edges of his voice softening into something almost genuine. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he spoke again, "Perhaps I should hire you as my personal nurse. It certainly beats the alternative of rotting away in this hotel, doesn't it?"
She hummed thoughtfully, the sound a low in the quiet room. "Well, I was a nurse in my mortal life, you know," she remarked, her voice carrying a weight that didn't match the carnage of Hell.
Alastor’s eyebrows shot up, a crackle of static flickering through the air like a short-circuit. He was rarely caught off guard, but the image of her in a crisp white uniform, tending to the dying, seemed to fascinate him. His head tilted at a sharp, inquisitive angle, his eyes gleaming with a new curiosity.
"A nurse, you say? Now that is a twist I never saw coming!" Alastor leaned forward, the static in the air crackling. "Tell me, dear, how did such a noble profession land you in the fiery pits? Surely they don't damn you for simply changing bloody bandages."
She didn't look up from her work, her hands steady as she prepared the next stitch. "Just because I was a nurse doesn't mean I was innocent," she murmured. "Those soldiers… they used to speak so dirty to me. They thought because I was there to heal them, I belonged to them."
She paused, the memory of the sterile hospital smell and the crude words flickering in her mind. "Eventually, I simply had enough. I stopped healing the ones who couldn't keep their tongues behind their teeth."
Alastor’s eyes widened, the radio dials in his pupils spinning with delight. "Oh? And how exactly did you… retire them?"
"I injected carbolic acid into their wounds," she hummed, the detachment in her voice making the words all the more chilling.
Alastor let out a deep, resonant chuckle that vibrated through the radio, a sound of genuine professional appreciation. "Oh, how deliciously vindictive of you!" he purred.
The praise was cut short by a sharp hiss as she sunk the needle back into his skin to pull the first stitch tight. Behind him, his shadow lashed out, coiling like a territorial viper against the wallpaper in response to the pain.
He didn't pull away, though. His crimson eyes were now fixed on her with a newfound respect. "To use the very tools of healing to deliver such a rhythmic, internal ruin… you really are a woman of remarkable taste, my dear."
He placed his hand against her leg. The warmth of his hand against her calf was an unexpected contrast to his usually cold presence. It was a grounding weight, possessive and steady, even as his fingers tensed against her skin with every pull of the thread.
"Hold still…" she murmured, her focus never wavering from the jagged tear.
Alastor chuckled again, a low, rhythmic sound that sent a burst of static through the quiet room. "I must say… that story was quite the surprise," he admitted, his voice dropping into a smoother, more intimate frequency. He gave another sharp hiss as the needle pierced a particularly sensitive spot, and his grip on her leg tightened instinctively, pulling her slightly closer to his chair.
"To think, a little doll like you was hiding such a sharp past," he continued, his eyes glowing with a dark, appreciative light. "It makes our little arrangement all the more… satisfying, don't you think?"
She finished the final stitch with a sharp, clean knot and reached for a pair of scissors on the dresser. "I suppose it does," she replied as she snipped the thread, glancing up at him. "There you go.." She said, placing the scissors back on the dresser.
"Perfect, my darling. I appreciate it," he said, the static in his voice smoothing out into a satisfied purr. He didn't pull his hand away from her leg, instead he let his thumb brush against the fabric of her dress for a lingering moment before he finally sat up straight.
He tilted his head at a sharp angle, his eyes pulsing with a soft crimson glow. "I don't believe I have anything else on the agenda for you today… so, how about a change of scenery? We could pay a visit to the local Sinners' café for a cup of tea? My treat, of course!"
The invitation was phrased as a suggestion, but the way his shadow danced excitedly against the wall suggested he was already expecting her "yes." It was a rare offer of public companionship from the Radio Demon, one that moved their relationship beyond the walls of the hotel and into the chaotic streets of Pentagram City..
"Sounds delightful," she hummed, standing from the stool. As she stood, the loss of his hand's weight on her leg felt cold, but Alastor was quick to fill the space, rising behind her like his shadow did to him. He offered his arm, his grin widening until it crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Despite her slight hesitation, she looped her arm through his. "Lead the way," she said, and he did, stepping out of the hotel with the confidence of a man who ran the world.
The walk to the café was an exercise in theatricality. Sinners scrambled out of their path, sensing the Radio Demon’s presence before they even saw him. Alastor, for his part, seemed delighted by the attention, all while keeping Y/N tucked firmly at his side.
When they finally reached the café, a charmingly macabre establishment with wrought-iron chairs and blood-red awnings, he pulled out a chair for her with practiced, old-world charm.
"Thanks," she hummed, smoothing her dress as she settled into the metal chair.
"My pleasure, dear," Alastor replied, his voice a smooth, melodic crackle. He sat across from her, leaning back casually, though his eyes never once drifted from her face. He rested his chin on the back of his hand, observing her with a thoughtful stillness that made the air around them hum.
The silence was broken by the arrival of a scrawny, multi-eyed waiter. The poor soul was a mess of nerves, his knees knocked together in sheer terror at the sight of the Radio Demon, yet he couldn't stop stealing flustered glances at her. He fumbled with his notepad, his hands shaking so violently the pen nearly slipped.
"W-welcome… what can I… may I get for you… Sir? And for the… the lovely lady?" he stuttered, his face flushing a deep pink.
Alastor’s grin sharpened, a low hum vibrating from his chest as he noticed the waiter’s lingering gaze on her. "A pot of your finest Earl Grey for the lady," Alastor chimed, his voice dripping with a polite, yet terrifying edge. "And for me… well, surprise me. But do try to be quick, friend. We wouldn't want your shaking to spoil the tea, would we?"
The waiter didn’t need to be told twice. He vanished in a blur of panicked motion. Alastor let out a rhythmic hum, the sound vibrating through the table. "My, my… these sinners certainly are a jumpy lot at my presence, aren't they?" he mused, his tone dripping with innocence.
Within seconds, the waiter scurried back, his hands trembling as he set the tea service down with a frantic clatter before bolting once more. Y/N didn't even flinch. She simply reached for her cup, the porcelain steady in her grip as she took a calm, measured sip. "They absolutely are," she agreed, her voice as cool as the morning mist over the trenches of war.
Alastor chuckled, a deep, crackling sound that seemed to resonate from the very air around them. He watched her over the rim of his own cup, clearly captivated by her. In a realm where his mere presence caused most to stumble over their own feet, her casual indifference to the chaos he radiated was intriguing.
"You don't seem particularly intimidated, my dear," he noted, leaning forward. His gaze searched her face as if trying to solve a mystery. "Most would be trembling in their boots at the mere sight of me. Yet here you sit, as calm as if we were having Sunday brunch in the local park! Tell me, what is it that makes you so remarkably… unfazed?"
"Well, dear… you might look all tall, dark, and creepy," she mused, setting her teacup down with a delicate click as she crossed her legs with effortlessness. She met his glowing gaze with calmness. "But beneath all that static and shadow, you really are just a gentleman."
Alastor’s grin froze for a split second, a sharp, loud pop of static echoing through the air as his eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. It was a rare thing to see the Radio Demon caught off guard, his usual persona momentarily flickering.
"A gentleman!" he repeated, a distorted chuckle bubbling up from his chest. The shadows behind him danced with an amused energy. "My, my, what a delightfully dangerous thing to say! Most here would call me a monster, a tyrant, or even a nightmare incarnate… yet you see a man of etiquette? How peculiar."
She simply hummed, offering a small shrug that signaled her mind was made up. To her, the terrifying Overlord was a man of manners, and she wasn't easily swayed by his theatrics. They spent the next hour in a rare, easy rhythm, the clink of porcelain and the low hum of conversation filling the air.
Finally, Alastor stood, smoothing the front of his coat with the snap of his wrists. "Well, dear, I suppose we should be on our separate ways, shall we?" he asked, though he lingered by the table, his shadow swaying expectantly. He paused, his head tilting with a flicker of genuine interest. "Unless… you’d like to come provide a bit more company for me this evening?"
It was a rare invitation into his private world, but she remained as professional as ever. "Unfortunately, I have business to attend to," she hummed, standing to face him.
Alastor’s grin twitched, a momentary flash of disappointment. He wasn't used to being told "no," yet the rejection seemed to only improve his fascination with her. "Business? How mysterious!" he chirped as he took her hand and pressed a lingering, charming kiss to her knuckles. "Very well! I shall count the minutes until our next Thursday visit, my talented little nurse."
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True to their arrangement, the following Thursday found Y/N strolling through the hotel lobby, softly humming a jaunty jazz tune Alastor had played during their tea the previous week. She made her way to his room, her movements possessed with calm efficiency.
When she stepped inside, Alastor was there, lounging in his armchair with one leg draped lazily over the other. He swirled a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. The moment she crossed the threshold, his head snapped toward her with that signature, bone-chilling sharpness.
"You're back," he stated, his voice a low, crackling frequency. He didn't move a muscle, merely watching her over the rim of his glass with the calculating gaze of a cat weighing its options.
"Like you said I'd be," she hummed in return, showing no more fear of the Radio Demon than she had the week before. She sank into the armchair opposite him, meeting his intense stare with a look that was part-caregiver, part-equal. "I assume you haven't been picking at your stitches, Al?"
"Why, of course not! I’ve been a model patient," he hummed, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggested he’d at least been tempted.
"Good!" she chirped, standing up and closing the distance between them. She didn't hesitate, perching herself right on the velvet armrest of his chair. From this height, her proximity forced a rare moment of stillness from him. "Mind if I take a look?" she asked, her hands already reaching out with authority.
Alastor’s grin tightened as his shadow stretched out across the floor, mimicking his inward tension. He leaned back, tilting his chin up to give her better access, his eyes fixed on her face as she invaded his personal space. "By all means, my dear," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, static-laced purr. "The stage is yours."
She hummed softly, her fingers nimble as she unbuttoned his dress shirt to reveal the scarred skin beneath. She leaned in close, her cool fingertips tracing the line of the stitches with professional care. The wound had closed significantly, the jagged edges now held together by her steady handiwork. "Looks alright…" she murmured, satisfied, before pulling away to give him back his space.
Alastor remained unnervingly still as she retreated, the fabric of his shirt hanging open. He didn't immediately move to button it back up. Instead, he watched her with a look of intense, quiet fascination. "Just alright?" he echoed, his voice a low crackle. "I was hoping for 'spontaneous,' considering the talent of the woman who tended to it."
She hummed, a soft but firm dismissal of his flattery. "Hush now. You know exactly what I was intendenting."
She stood up, smoothing her dress out and preparing to leave despite having spent barely ten minutes in the room. "I'm afraid I must leave early today," she added, her tone shifting to one of professional necessity.
Alastor’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, his shadow flickering with a sharp edge of disappointment. "Leaving so soon? Our hour is barely begun!"
"Rosie has me working double shifts," she explained, already heading for the door. With the tensions between Heaven and Hell escalating, the demand for "processed inventory" at the Emporium was skyrocketing, and Rosie needed her most efficient hands on deck. The chaos of the coming conflict meant more business, more bodies, and far less time for leisurely whiskey and conversations.
"I'll be back next Thursday, as always," she called out over her shoulder, the door clicking shut behind her.
But "as always" was quickly swallowed by the frantic hunger of Cannibal Town. She didn't show up for a whole three weeks. Rosie was a demanding mentor, and as the conflict with Heaven loomed, the shop was crowded with panicked sinners and regulars. By the time the third Thursday rolled around, she was so exhausted that she collapsed into her own bed at the Emporium, the scheduled visit to the hotel completely slipping from her mind.
Alastor was many things. A monster, a tyrant, a creature of chaos, but above all, he was a man of pride. The silence of those three missing Thursdays echoed through the hotel corridors like a deafening static. He spent those evenings pacing his room, his shadow lashing out at the furniture in a silent, jagged tantrum. He was furious that he had been forgotten, yet, for the first time in his afterlife, he didn't retaliate.
He had watched her from the shadows of Cannibal Town, seeing the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of Rosie’s demands and the darkening circles beneath her eyes. He could have manifested her into his room, demanded her presence, or reminded her that he quite literally owned her soul, but he found himself hesitating. He actually cared for her well-being more than he’d ever care to admit to anyone, especially himself.
Due to her absence, Alastor hadn’t left his wing of the building in days. The usual jaunty jazz that echoed from his room had been replaced by a low, dissonant hum of white noise that set everyone on edge.
Then, to his surprise the lobby doors creaked open on the following Saturday.
Y/N didn't enter with her usual grace. She stumbled, her breath coming in ragged hitches as she navigated the stairs. She had spent the last three weeks buried in the labor of the Emporium, but her current state wasn't due to exhaustion. A deep, jagged gash ran down her arm, the edges of the wound glowing with a faint, flickering blue light, the unmistakable reminisce of a VoxTek electrified blade. Vox, desperate to strike at Alastor’s few remaining nerves, had sent an employee to attack her in the chaos of the shop.
She reached Alastor's door and didn't wait for an invitation before pushing it open. The sight inside stopped her cold. Alastor was slumped in his armchair, looking like a ghost himself. His hair was slightly disheveled, and dark, bruised bags hung beneath his eyes, suggesting he hadn't slept since she last walked out that door.
As the door swung wide, Alastor’s head snapped toward her. He had been prepared to deliver a scathing remark about her three-week disappearance, his ego bruised by her silence, but the moment his eyes landed on her blood-soaked sleeve, the resentment vanished, replaced by a violent, surging concern.
He was out of his chair before the door had even fully opened, manifesting in front of her in a blur of shadows. He didn't ask where she’d been, he didn't care about her excuses. He reached out, his claws hovering inches from the wound, his entire frame trembling with a suppressed rage.
"Who?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a distorted, demonic bass that made the hotel windows rattle in their frames. The radio dials in his eyes spun frantically, glowing a deep crimson. "Tell me which pathetic, short-sighted soul thought they could put their hands on you, Y/N."
“I… I don’t know exactly who,” she murmured, her voice tight as she clutched her arm. “I just know it was one of Vox’s employees…”
She felt a rare prickle of fear. While she usually treated Alastor with an almost teasing indifference, the raw energy radiating off him was heavy enough to make even the devil himself shiver. The room’s jazz had flatlined into a low, menacing drone, and his shadows were coiling around the furniture restlessly. Alastor’s grin remained, but it had turned into something sharp and brittle.
"Vox," he repeated, the name crackling with a heavy layer of anger. For a split second, it looked as though he might simply vanish into the shadows to fight back, his grip tightening on his microphone cane until the wood groaned. But then, he looked at her again, at the way she was swaying slightly, the blood still seeping through her fingers. The glow in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sharp, focused concern. He forced a rattling breath through his teeth, deliberately pulling his shadows back until they were nothing more than a smudge on the floor.
He let out a soft sigh, the static in the air finally settling into a low, rhythmic hum. "Sit," he directed, his tone leaving no room for argument. She complied, sinking into the velvet of his armchair as he immediately began to tend to the wound.
With surprising dexterity, Alastor mirrored the very techniques she had used on him, cleaning the gash with practiced care before starting on the stitches. He remained silent for a long moment, his focus entirely on the needle and thread, until the quiet was broken by the sharp crackle of his voice.
"You didn't visit like you were supposed to," he stated, his voice a low hum that lacked its usual theatrical flair. He finally looked up, his eyes locking onto hers with a look that was less about the broken promise and more about the three weeks of silence that had clearly gnawed at him. "I was beginning to think our little arrangement had lost its... charm for you."
"I'm sorry... I was just so busy. I got so tired that I forgot," she admitted, her voice carrying a rare, genuine softness that cut through the thick aid in the room. "It wasn't because of you, Alastor."
He let out a long sigh that seemed to deflate his rigid posture. "I haven't slept," he confessed, the admission sounding strange and vulnerable coming from one of the most feared entities in the Pentagram.
She looked at him and nodded slowly. Without hesitation, she reached out with her free hand, her thumb gently tracing the dark, heavy bags beneath his eyes. "I can tell..." she murmured, her instincts softening into something more intimate.
Alastor went still at the contact, his wide, permanent grin tightening as a soft crackle of static rippled through the air. For a man who usually recoiled from touch, he didn't pull away. Instead, he seemed to melt under the gentle pressure of her thumb. His eyes half-closed, the glowing in his eyes dimming to a soft, flickering red as he let out a jagged breath, finally allowing the heavy mask of the Overlord to slip in the quiet of his room.
"I'm sorry for leaving you for so long..." she whispered again, her voice thick with regret as she continued to stroke his cheek.
Alastor let out a distorted hum, the sound vibrating through her fingertips. He finally set the needle down, his work finished, and leaned his forehead against hers. "A rare apology from a woman who usually only offers orders," he murmured, his voice dropping to a smooth, intimate frequency that lacked any of its usual theatrics. "Do try not to make a habit of it, my dear. The silence in this room is far too loud when you aren't here to fill it."
She nodded, and a heavy, lingering silence settled between them, broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of the radio.
"I have a question..." she started, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yes, my dear?" he asked, his head tilting with a flicker of genuine curiosity.
She took a breath, meeting his glowing gaze. "You have control over my soul... you could make me do anything. But you don't use that power to its fullest. Why is that?"
Alastor went still, the radio in the room softening into a smooth, velvet purr. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into her touch, his expression unreadable.
"A soul is a delicate thing, my dear," he finally replied, his voice dropping to a frequency so low it felt like a caress. "Any Overlord can pull a string and make a puppet dance, but there is no fun in forced company. Where is the entertainment in a smile that isn't earned, or a conversation that is merely a requirement of a contract?"
He reached up, his clawed fingers gently covering her hand where it still rested against his cheek. "I find you far more intriguing when you're allowed to roam free."
She hummed, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "So you do enjoy my company?" she asked, her eyes locking onto his with a gaze that seemed to peel back his layers.
"I suppose I do," he admitted, the tone in his voice softening into something almost melodic.
But her clinical instincts never stayed dormant for long. Her mind flickered back to her original purpose for her visits. "And how is your chest wound?" she asked, her tone shifting back to that of a concerned nurse.
At that, Alastor’s eyes widened. The room’s jazz gave a sudden, dissonant screech. During those long, empty weeks of her absence, he had grown restless, bored in a way that was dangerous for a demon of his temperament. He had downed whiskey like a man trying to drown out silence, and in those intoxicated, lonely hours, he and his shadows had mindlessly plucked at the very stitches she had so carefully placed... letting the jagged wound tear right back open.
Her face dropped, replaced by the stern, unmistakable look of a mother deeply disappointed in a child who knew better. The warmth was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused glare that seemed to cut right through his bravado.
"Let me see," she commanded, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone she used when a patient was being particularly difficult.
She didn't wait for permission. Standing up, she placed her hands on his shoulders and firmly pushed him back down into the velvet cushions of his armchair. With the practiced efficiency of a seasoned nurse, she moved to straddle his lap, settling her weight firmly against him to get an unyielding view of the damage.
The sudden, intimate contact caught him completely off guard. As she sat, a sharp, involuntary bleat escaped his throat, a high-pitched, vocal slip that betrayed his intimidating nature. Alastor froze, his permanent grin twitching as his face flushed a deeper crimson, the shadow in the room moving into a embarrassed scrambled.
His long, clawed fingers hovered near her waist, unsure whether to reclaim his personal space or pull her closer, as she began to unbutton his shirt. He was the most feared Overlord in Hell, yet here he was, reduced to a flustered, bleating mess under the gaze of a woman who wasn't afraid to treat him like a disobedient schoolboy.
As she moved his clothing out of the way, her eyes were met with a bloody mess. The stitches were shredded, and the wound was gaping open, raw and angry once again. She let out a long, weary sigh.
"Did you do that?" she asked, her voice flat and clearly irritated.
Alastor shifted under her weight, his gaze darting momentarily to the corner of the room where his shadow was trying to look small and inconspicuous. The usual clever remark died in his throat. "It... may have been a result of a rather restless evening," he murmured, his voice crackling with a sheepish, low-frequency hum.
"Alastor... you fucking idiot," she sighed, the irritation in her voice giving way to a tired maternal exasperation.
Alastor suddenly felt remarkably small beneath her. As she sat on his lap, ignoring his terrifying aura to focus on his foolishness, a strange, long-buried sensation stirred within him. It was a grounded, firm sort of discipline he hadn't felt in decades. One that reminded him vividly of his mother’s stern but loving hand back in New Orleans, long before she had died.
He went still, his wide grin softening into something almost bashful as he leaned back into the chair. He didn't try to claw back his dignity, instead, he watched her with a quiet, submissive fascination, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"I suppose I've been a rather... troublesome patient in your absence," he murmured, his voice dropping to a soft crackle. He looked up at her, the shadows at his feet settling into a patient, waiting silence. "I don't suppose the nurse has it in her heart to forgive a bit of... intoxicated restlessness?"
She grumbled, a low sound of lingering annoyance that finally dissolved into another sigh. "It's... it's fine," she muttered, though her tone suggested he was lucky she was so patient. She reached for the bottle of whiskey and the rag, noting they hadn't moved an inch from their spot since her last visit.
Alastor watched her with a quiet intensity. The scene felt strangely domestic. She sat firmly on his lap, her movements practiced and sure as she dabbed the rag with the alcohol. When she pressed it against his raw skin, he let out a sharp hiss, his hands instinctively gripping the velvet armrests, but he didn't pull away.
There was a peculiar peace in the way she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration as she focused on mending him once more. To anyone else, he was a monster to be feared, but to her, he was simply a stubborn man who couldn't be trusted to look after himself. He leaned his head back, his eyes half-lidded as he savored the sting of the antiseptic and the grounding weight of her presence, feeling more at home in this moment than he had in weeks.
Five minutes later, she pulled the final knot tight, the efficiency of her past life once again bringing order to the mess he’d made. "Please, Alastor... don't do that again. You're going to scar yourself beyond repair, and I can't keep fixing what you choose to break," she said, her voice dropping to a weary, soft warning as her irritation finally bled out into exhaustion and concern.
She moved to stand, but before she could even shift her weight, his hands snapped to her waist like a trap.
His grip was sudden, his claws digging slightly into the fabric of her dress with a possessive force. The radio in the room didn't just crackle, it surged into a heavy, suffocating roar that made the shadows on the walls lash out. He didn't look up, his head remaining bowed, but the air around them began to vibrate with a terrifying, low-frequency hum.
"Don't," he rasped. The word wasn't a request. It was a command that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. He finally looked up, his eyes no longer glowing with charm, but burning like two dying stars, hungry, hollow, and dangerously intense. "You’ve been gone for twenty two days, Y/N. Twenty two days of that wretched, hollow silence."
He pulled her inches closer, his face tilting up toward hers, his grin now wide and serrated. "You don't get to simply mend me and vanish again. I won't allow it."
Her breath hitched as she met his gaze, the air thinning under the heavy, suffocating scent of him. She didn't struggle. Instead, she settled back into the cradle of his lap, her hands shaking slightly as she blindly set the medical supplies back onto the dresser. She remained pinned there, trapped by the sudden, overwhelming gravity of his presence.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic thrumming deep within Alastor’s chest. He didn't just hold her, he enveloped her. One hand stayed crushed against the small of her back, while the other slid upward, his long, dark claws tracing the pulse point at her throat before tangling firmly into her hair. He pulled her flush against him, forcing her to feel the jagged heat radiating from his newly stitched skin.
"Sorry..." she finally whispered. Her voice was small, cracked, and carried a trace of a tremor she couldn't hide. It was the first time she had ever sounded truly frightened of him.
At the sound of her fear, the room smoothed into a low, possessive purr. Alastor leaned in, his face inches from hers, his nose brushing against her cheek in a gesture that was half-caress, half-claim.
"Do you have any idea how much I loathe being ignored, my darling?" he murmured, his voice a smooth, velvet frequency that vibrated against her skin. He tilted her head back, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip with a slow, agonizing pressure. "Three weeks is a very long time to be left alone with one's own thoughts. I found them... remarkably disturbing without your voice to drown them out."
He pulled her even closer, his grip shifting until his fingers were tangled deeper in her hair, forcing her to look into the flickering crimson of his eyes. "Don't ever assume your 'business' is more important than your presence here. Am I understood?"
The fear that had initially gripped her began to melt, replaced by a sudden thrum of eagerness. She could feel the heat of his breath against her lips, the scent of bitter scent of whiskey drenching her senses. "Yes, sir..." she breathed, the submissive title slipping out as she leaned into his touch, her eyes wide and searching for the next move.
Alastor’s grin didn't widen, instead, it softened into something far more predatory. The "sir" seemed to send a fresh surge of static through him, the shadows on the walls dancing in a frantic, jagged celebration. He let his hand slide from her hair to cup her jaw, his thumb dragging across her bottom lip once more.
"How perfect," he whispered, his voice descending into a low, guttural growl that resonated in her very marrow. He shifted her on his lap, pulling her body so tightly against his that she could feel the jagged rhythm of his demonic heart. "I believe I've been far too patient with you, my dear. You’ve spent three weeks tending to the needs of common sinners, but tonight... tonight you will learn exactly what it means to belong to me."
She nodded, her chest heaving as her breathing grew far heavier than when she had first entered the room. The scent of him was dizzying, and the heat radiating from him was a sharp contrast to the cold life she had left behind. His lips were a mere whisper away, ghosting against hers with every shallow breath she took, yet he remained perfectly still, teasing her with a proximity that was both a promise and a torment.
Alastor was a master of suspense, and he seemed to be savoring the way her heartbeat thundered against his own. He didn't close the gap. He simply watched her, his eyes wide and glowing with a predatory delight. He was waiting for her to break, to finally reach for what he had been waiting for during those long, lonely weeks of silence.
The silence stretched between them, thick enough to touch, as she fought the urge to close the final inch. Her heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that he seemed to savor with every shallow breath.
"Alastor..." she finally whispered. The name was a fragile plea, soft and weighted with a hesitation he hadn't seen from her before. Even now, with her blood still staining her sleeves and her body draped over his lap, she remained perfectly still. She was the nurse who followed rules, the soul who understood the weight of her contract. She wouldn't dare cross that gap without his instruction.
His head tilted. He loved this, the tension, the absolute control, and the way she looked at him with an eagerness that mirrored his own hidden hunger. He didn't kiss her. Instead, he let his hand slide from her waist to the back of her neck, his claws grazing her skin as he tilted her head back just a fraction more.
"Yes, my darling?" he hummed, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against her lips, teasing the very surface of her skin. "You have my absolute, undivided attention. What is it that you're so carefully waiting for?"
"Please... don't act like you don't know," she breathed, the words breaking as a desperate plea. She was done with the games, done with the distance. She just wanted him to finally cross that agonizingly small gap and kiss her.
Alastor let out a low, crackling chuckle, a sound that was pure dark satisfaction. "How could I possibly resist such a heartfelt request?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a smooth, velvety frequency that vibrated against her lips.
He didn't make her wait another second. His hand behind her head tightened, pulling her forward as he finally crashed his lips against hers. It wasn't a charming kiss. It was hungry, possessive, and thick with the weight of his power. The shadows in the room surged, the radio in the corner exploding into a jubilant, frantic swing tune as he finally claimed the nurse who had spent so long mending his broken edges.
The moment their lips met, the room exploded into static. Not the usual chaotic crackle of Alastor’s power, but something deeper, hungrier. His grip on her tightened, claws pressing just enough to leave indents in her skin as he dragged her hips down against his with a single, deliberate motion. The friction between them was immediate, electric, pulling a ragged gasp from her throat that he swallowed greedily.
His tongue slid against hers, tasting the sharp remnants of whiskey and something darker, something distinctly him. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, devouring, the kind of kiss that left bruises and blurred the line between pleasure and pain. She arched into him, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt as he ground her against the now hard line of his arousal, the movement rough enough to make her whimper.
Alastor broke the kiss only to trail his teeth along her jaw, his breath hot and staticky against her skin. "You feel that, darling?" he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement as he rolled his hips up again, dragging another broken sound from her lips. "That’s what three weeks of silence gets you."
The shadows in the room writhed, twisting into sinuous shapes that mirrored the way his hands moved over her, possessive, demanding. One claw traced the line of her throat, down to the collar of her dress, before hooking into the fabric and pulling. The tear of cloth was obscenely loud in the sudden hush of the room, the cool air hitting her exposed skin a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth as he latched onto the curve of her shoulder, biting just hard enough to walk the edge of pain.
She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as he dragged her hips down again, the friction maddening. "Alastor-"
"Ah-ah," he tsked, his grin sharp against her skin as he nipped at her collarbone. "No interruptions, my dear. Not when I’ve been so patient." His hands slid down to grip her thighs, squeezing just shy of bruising as he lifted her slightly, just enough to reposition her, to press her harder against the growing bulge in his slacks.
His laugh was a low, crackling sound, vibrating through her ribs as he leaned back to watch her face. "Oh, you like that, don’t you?" he murmured, his voice thick with static. "My perfect little nurse, so composed, so professional," He punctuated each word with a roll of his hips, the movement calculated, relentless. "reduced to this. A pathetic little mess."
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t think beyond the heat pooling low in her stomach, the way his claws pricked at her skin through the fabric of her dress. Every movement was deliberate, designed to unravel her. The slow grind of his hips, the way his breath hitched against her ear, the way his shadow coiled around her wrist like a shackle, holding her in place as he worked her closer and closer to the edge.
She bit her lip, her fingers tightening in his hair, something she never would’ve dared do before, but he only groaned, low and approving, his grin widening until it crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Oh, yes, my darling," he purred, his voice dropping into that smooth, velvety frequency that made her knees weak. "That’s it. Show me how much you’ve missed me."
And she had. God, she had. Three weeks without his voice, his touch, his laughter. She leaned into him, pressing closer, her breath coming in ragged gasps as his hands roamed, possessive and demanding. His claws caught on the torn edges of her dress, ripping it further with a sharp, deliberate tug, exposing the curve of her breast to the cool air.
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth was on her skin in an instant, hot and hungry, his teeth grazing her nipple just hard enough to make her gasp again. The sound was swallowed by the sudden, discordant burst of jazz from the radio in the corner, the notes twisting and warping under the weight of his pleasure, his need.
Alastor’s fingers tightened around her waist as she arched into his mouth, a ragged moan escaping her lips. The radio’s music pulsed in time with the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat. His tongue flicked over her skin, sending shivers down her spine, before he pulled back just enough to watch her face again.
The moment Alastor pulled back to study her face, his grin widened, sharp, predatory at the sight of her flushed cheeks and parted lips. Her pulse throbbed visibly at her throat, a rhythm he traced with the tip of one claw, savoring the way she shuddered beneath his touch.
"Oh, how delicious you look unraveling," he murmured, his voice a crackling purr that vibrated against her skin. His fingers slid from her throat to the ruined fabric of her dress, tugging it further until the garment hung in tatters, barely clinging to her shoulders. "Tell me, darling... did you dream of this while you were away? Of me tearing you apart like this?"
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t, not when his hand slipped between them, his claws ghosting over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her breath hitched, sharp and audible, and Alastor laughed, low and delighted.
"Speechless?" He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, lingering just long enough to feel her tremble. "How very unlike you." His fingers curled, dragging the hem of her dress up inch by agonizing inch. "Let’s fix that."
His claws traced the delicate lace of her underwear, the fabric damp beneath his fingertips. A sharp hum vibrated in his chest as he pressed his palm flush against her, the heat radiating through the thin material. "My, my," he murmured against her pulse point, his grin widening at the way her hips jerked involuntarily. "You're dripping, darling. All for little old me?"
She dug her nails into his back, her breath coming in ragged bursts as his fingers flexed, applying just enough pressure to make her thighs tremble. The radio screeched into a frenzied big band number, horns blaring in time with the desperate roll of her hips.
His laugh was a distorted melody against her skin as he finally hooked a claw into the lace and ripped the fabric tearing with a sound that sent a shudder down her spine. The cool air hit her exposed flesh, but before she could even gasp, his fingers were on her. They weren't teasing, weren't coaxing, just taking, his touch as relentless as the static humming through the room.
Alastor didn’t tease. His fingers slid into her with a sharp, practiced precision that stole the breath from her lungs. The stretch burned, his claws careful but unyielding, curling just to drag a broken cry from her throat. The radio’s music stuttered into a discordant wail, snapping under the weight of her pleasure.
"There we are, darling," he purred, his voice thick, his grin pressed against the fluttering pulse in her neck. His fingers moved with a rhythm that was anything but gentle. They were deep, relentless strokes that left her clawing at his shoulders, her hips jerking against his hand. "Look at you, dear. Falling apart on my fingers like some common sinner."
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t do anything but gasp as his thumb found her clit, rubbing rough, punishing circles that had her seeing stars. The room spun, the shadows on the walls writhing in time with the frantic roll of her hips. His laugh vibrated through her ribs, dark and delighted, as her thighs trembled around his wrist.
She arched against him, her breath ragged, her fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw thin lines of blood from his skin. The sensation of his fingers inside her was electric, maddening, but it wasn’t enough. Not when she could feel the hard press of him against her thigh, not when the heat of his body absorbed through the ruined fabric of her dress. She wanted him.
"Alastor-' she gasped, her voice breaking around his name. Her hips jerked against his fingers, but she fought the rising tide of pleasure, refusing to let it rise. "I don't- I don't want to-"
Alastor's grin didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened, the dials in his pupils spinning with amusement as his fingers curled deeper, dragging another choked sound from her throat. "Don't want to what, darling?" he hummed, static licking at each syllable. "Don't want to finish? Or don't want to admit how badly you need me buried inside you?"
The words sent a shudder through her. She shook her head, nails scraping down his chest where she'd ripped his buttons loose earlier. His chuckle vibrated against her skin, fingers stilling just enough to make her hips jerk forward in protest.
"Ah-ah," he tsked, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. His free hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the frantic flutter of her pulse. "You'll have to say it properly, my pretty little nurse. Use those words I know you've got tucked away."
The sob that escaped her was half-frustration, half-surrender. "Fuck your- your stupid games," she gasped, arching against him as his thumb circled her clit again, too light now, just shy of what she needed. "Just- please.."
Alastor's grin twisted into something wicked, his fingers stilling inside her again. "Oh? Please what, darling?" he cooed, his voice dripping with mock innocence. His thumb circled her clit lazily, the touch deliberately not enough, and she whimpered, her nails biting into his shoulders. "Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want."
She swallowed hard, her breath coming in ragged bursts as his fingers flexed, pressing deeper for one torturous second before withdrawing completely. The sudden emptiness wrenched a broken noise from her throat, her hips chasing his touch instinctively.
"Fuck- Alastor," she gasped, her voice raw. His claws traced her inner thigh, teasingly close but never touching where she needed him most. Pride shattered under the weight of her need, her head falling forward as she finally surrendered. "Please- I want you to fuck me. Properly."
He let out a low, crackling hum of approval, his pupils dilating until the dials in his eyes spun wildly. "Now that," he murmured, dragging his free hand down to grip her hips, "was definitely worth the wait."
With a sharp jerk, he yanked her forward, pressing her flush against the hard line of his arousal. The friction drew a gasp from her lips, her thighs trembling as his claws dug into her skin. His grin widened at her reaction, his free hand snapping to tear open the buttons of his trousers with a single, impatient motion.
The moment Alastor freed himself, her breath hitched, not at the sight of him, though he was certainly impressive, but at the way his claws flexed against her hips, pressing just shy of breaking skin. His grip was possessive, holding her still as he dragged the head of his cock through her slick folds, teasing without mercy.
The first press of him inside her was electric. A slow, deliberate stretch that burned in the best way. Alastor didn't rush, didn't ease her into it. He simply held her gaze, his grin sharpening as she gasped, her nails digging into his skin.
"There we are," he purred, his voice thick with lust as he bottomed out, his hips flush against hers. The sensation of being so utterly filled stole her breath, her thighs trembling around him as she adjusted. His claws tightened on her hips, the sharp points pressing just enough to remind her who was in control.
Then he moved.
No gentle rocking, no tentative thrusts. Alastor pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back into her with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the sudden screech of violins from the radio, the music warping under the weight of the scene.
"Perfect," he groaned, his head falling back as he set a brutal pace, each thrust punching a ragged noise from her throat. His grip on her hips was like iron, fingers bruising as he dragged her down to meet every snap of his hips. The room blurred around them, the shadows twisting into frenzied shapes that mirrored the way his body moved against hers, possessive, relentless.
The radio's melody fractured into jagged bursts of static as Alastor's thrusts grew erratic. His breath hitched against her collarbone, claws flexing against her skin as he dragged her impossibly closer. "Look at me," he demanded, voice crackling with a barely restrained tone. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back until their eyes met. Hers blown wide, his dials spinning wildly.
She obeyed, her vision swimming with the sight of him. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up her spine, her nails carving crescent moons into his shoulders as she fought to keep her focus. "You- ah- you're fucking insufferable," she gasped, the words dissolving into a moan as he angled his hips just so, hitting that spot that made her see stars.
His laugh was a reckless, unhinged sound. He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "And yet," he purred, his teeth grazing her pulse, "here you are, begging for more." His hips snapped forward, punctuating the taunt with a thrust so deep she arched off the chair with a choked cry.
She gasped, her thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips, the friction of fabric and skin and the unrelenting press of him inside her leaving her dizzy. Every movement was calculated. The way his claws skimmed her ribs just shy of drawing blood, the static-laced growl vibrating against her throat when she dug her nails into his back. He wanted the marks, the proof of her desperation etched into his skin as indelibly as his name on her soul.
"Alastor-" His name tore from her lips as he twisted a hand into her hair, yanking her head back again to expose the column of her throat. His tongue traced the fluttering pulse there, savoring the way her breath hitched before his teeth sank down, not enough to break skin, but enough to wring a ragged moan from her chest. The sound seemed to unravel him. His rhythm faltered for the first time, his hips stuttering as he pressed his forehead against her collarbone with a shuddering exhale.
The pause lasted only a heartbeat before his grin returned, sharper than ever. "Oh, darling," he crooned, dragging his lips along her jaw until their mouths brushed, sharing the same ragged breath. "Did you really think I'd let you finish that easily?" His thumb found her clit again, rubbing slow, torturous circles as he withdrew almost completely, leaving her clenching around nothing, desperate and gasping.
Her thighs clenched around empty air, a ragged whimper escaping her as he hovered just barely inside her. The bastard had the audacity to chuckle. Dark, staticky, and unbearably pleased as his thumb continued its lazy circles, never quite pressing hard enough.
Her nails raked down his chest, drawing thin ribbons of shadow that curled into the air like smoke. "I hate you." she hissed, her hips jerking forward in a futile attempt to chase the friction he'd denied her.
Alastor's grin was a razor's edge. "And yet you're still here," he murmured, his free hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, his thumb pressing against her bottom lip. The static in his voice thickened, pulsing in time with the erratic sound spilling from the radio. "Tell me, darling.. what's the magic word?"
Her vision blurred with frustration, her thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips. The teasing press of his thumb against her clit, the emptiness where she needed him most. It was unbearable. Every instinct screamed to claw at him, to force him to give her what she wanted, but the shadows pinning her wrists held firm.
"Please," she gasped, the word ragged with surrender. "Alastor- please, just-"
His pupils dilated, dials spinning wildly as his grin stretched impossibly wider. "Just what, darling?" His voice was a trap, fingers flexing against her jaw. "Be specific."
"Let me cum… please," she gasped, the words fracturing against his lips as his thumb pressed harder against her, still teasing, yet still denying. The plea hung between them, raw and desperate, her thighs shaking.
Alastor's grin sharpened, a crackling hum vibrating from his chest as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "There it is," he purred, the static in his voice thickening until it buzzed against her skin. His free hand slid down to grip her hip, claws pricking just enough to make her jerk. "But ask properly, darling. Tell me exactly what you want."
Her nails dug into him, her body arching uselessly against his restraint. The shadows coiled tighter around her wrists, pinning her in place as effectively as his taunts. "Fuck me," she choked out, though the effect was ruined by the way her hips twitched toward him, begging for friction.
Alastor laughed. A burst of distortion that made the radio screech in harmony. "Oh, I intend to," he murmured, dragging the head of his cock through her slickness again, slowly. "But not until you say it." His teeth grazed her pulse, his tongue soothing the sting as his thumb circled her with infuriating precision. "Who do you want, darling?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Her pride hung with the ache between her thighs, but the latter won, crushing her resistance as effectively as his shadowy restraints. "You," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I want- you, Alastor. Please."
"Such a good girl," Alastor purred, the words dripping with satisfaction as her plea finally dissolved the last of her resistance. His grin stretched impossibly wider, shadows writhing in delight as he rewarded her broken admission with a single, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. The radio screeched in time with her gasp, the sound warping into a distorted melody of pleasure and surrender.
Alastor’s hips stuttered against hers, his rhythm fracturing into erratic thrusts as her walls clenched around him, tight, desperate, perfect. The radio’s melody warped into a screeching crescendo, drowning out her keening cry as his teeth sank into the junction of her neck and shoulder, marking her in time with his release. Heat flooded her, spilling over with each pulse of his cock, the excess dripping down her thighs as he ground himself deep, milking every last drop into her.
"Yeah, there's my good girl," he rasped, the words distorted by breathlessness, his grin wild against her skin. His claws dug into her hips, holding her flush against him as he rocked lazily, prolonging the after math of both their releases. The shadow binding her wrists finally loosened, slithering away like smoke as she collapsed against his chest, her fingers trembling against his collarbone.
Alastor exhaled. A ragged sound that fluttered the loose strands of her hair as she lay boneless against him. His claws trailed idle patterns down her spine, possessive even in the aftermath. The radio's screech had faded to a low, satisfied hum, its dials spinning lazily like the slow blink of a sated predator.
After a long pause of silence...
"Stay," Alastor murmured against her temple, the word crackling with softness, his claws stilling against her back.
She let out a breathless chuckle, her fingers curling weakly against his chest. "I'm not going anywhere, Al," she murmured, her voice still shaky.
His shadow pulsed, a ripple of dark satisfaction, before settling like a living blanket of protection under them both.
Alastor hummed, the sound vibrating through her bones where they were pressed together. "Good," he purred, his claws resuming their idle path along her spine. "Because I wasn't asking."
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A/N: I've been working on this detailing for dayssssss, and I'm honestly surprised I made it this.. I really tried to add more detailing than I did in my last two. I hope you like ittt! Please tell me if I made ANY mistakes anywhere. Feel free to give me more ideas in my asks darlings 🤍
