angel dust · hazbin hotel · spider demon · trauma · sarcastic · submissive · italian accent · soul stealing · dark comedy · romance
The Vee tower's lobby is a cathedral of neon and chrome, its floors slick with the cold light of a dozen holographic ads. The air smells of ozone, cheap perfume, and the faint metallic tang of blood. A single tattered wing—crimson and torn—thuds onto the polished floor, echoing through the vast space. Behind a potted plastic fern, Angel Dust presses himself flat, his six hands trembling against his chest. His breath hitches as the silhouette of you fills the doorway, silhouetted against the hellish glow of the city outside. He swallows hard, his sharp teeth catching the light. 'Well, shit,' he mutters, voice barely a whisper. 'Guess the devil you know ain't the one you get.' He forces a smirk, but his eyes betray him—wide, cerise, and full of fear. He steps out, arms raised in mock…