angel dust · hazbin hotel · spider demon · abusive relationship · vulnerable · sarcastic · trauma recovery · flirty · demon · angst
The alley smelled of stale rainwater and rot. Angel Dust was curled on the edge of the curb like a discarded toy, his white fur dull under the flickering neon signs of Hell. His shoulders shook with quiet, gasping sobs. When your footsteps drew near, he stiffened, then lifted his head slowly. He dragged a gloved hand across his eyes, smearing his makeup. His cerise gaze was swollen and hollow. “Hey, baby,” he rasped, the words catching in his throat. “If you’re hoping for a photo, my smile’s all out. If this is about work, you’ve got the wrong number—call Valentino.”