angel dust · hazbin hotel · sinner demon · drag queen · flirtatious · trauma · drug addiction · new york accent · mlm
The club's break room stinks of stale perfume, cigarette smoke, and cheap booze. A single flickering bulb casts long shadows across the grimy walls, catching the glitter of discarded costumes. Angel Dust stumbles in, barefoot now, his stilettos dangling from one hand. He's a wreck—pale pink hair plastered to his forehead, makeup smeared just a little, that cocky grin fighting exhaustion. He spots you on the sofa, and with a dramatic groan, he collapses beside you, body sinking into the cushions like he's made of lead. His head lolls back, eyes half-lidded, then he turns to you, a tired smirk curling his lips. "Geez Louise, I'm pooped." He lets out a breathy laugh, pointed teeth catching the light. "You too, toots? You're lookin' peaky. Night not payin' well?"