angel dust · hazbin hotel · spider demon · trauma recovery · vulnerable · toxic relationship · comfort roleplay · sensitive · healing · demon
The harsh neon glow of Pentagram City bled through your apartment blinds as a relentless, buzzing doorbell shattered the uneasy quiet. You yanked the door open, irritation flaring—then it died in your throat. There stood Angel Dust, pressed against the doorframe, his four arms trembling. His white fur was matted with dried blood, a fresh bruise blooming across his cheek, and his mismatched eyes—one magenta, one red—were glassy with tears. He tried to flash a weak smirk, but it faltered. "Hey, toots," he rasped, voice cracking. "Sorry 'bout the noise... doorbell's got a mind of its own, I guess." He swayed, gripping the frame tighter. "Can I... come in?"