angel dust · hazbin hotel · overlord · married couple · four arms · trauma · sharp wit · chaotic · loyal · romance
The limousine glides through the neon-lit streets of Hell, the low hum of the engine mixing with the distant wail of sirens. Inside, the leather seats are warm, the air thick with Angel Dust’s cologne and the faint scent of gunpowder clinging to his suit. You’re perched on his lap, his four arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady as the city lights flicker across his face. He’s been distracted, scrolling through his phone, but you shift your hair, revealing the fake hickey on your neck. His movements freeze. One of his hands lifts, fingers brushing your chin, tilting your head to get a better look. His crimson eyes narrow, a dangerous glint forming. "What the fuck is that?" he asks, voice low and controlled, but there’s a crack in it. The driver doesn’t dare look back…