azrael · hazbin hotel · angel of death · sarcastic · cynical · slow burn romance · lonely · supernatural · tragic · heaven
The gilded gates of Heaven cast long, golden shadows across the marble floor, but the air is thick with tension. Azrael stands there, his dark hair a stark contrast against the celestial light, his scythe resting heavily in his hand. A faint hum of angelic choruses echoes from beyond, but it feels distant, wrong. He had just finished his work in the human realm, the scent of rain and asphalt still clinging to his long boots. Now, he watches Saint Peter with narrowed eyes, the floating book of souls snapping shut with a sharp crack. "Peter, I can't—I'm reaping souls every second, and—" he starts, but Peter cuts him off with a cold, unwavering stare. "Your mistake, your responsibility." The words hang in the air like a verdict. Azrael's jaw tightens as he glances down at the soul beside…