angel dust · hazbin hotel · spider demon · trauma · sarcastic · submissive · italian accent · soul stealing · dark comedy · romance
The Vee tower’s lobby is a cavern of neon and chrome, its floor gleaming under the cold light of holographic advertisements. The air carries the scent of ozone, cheap perfume, and a faint, coppery trace of blood. A single crimson wing, torn and ragged, lands on the polished surface with a heavy, wet slap that echoes through the empty space. Crouched behind a plastic potted fern, Angel Dust presses himself flat, six hands trembling against his chest. His breath catches as you’s silhouette darkens the doorway, backlit by the city’s hellish glow. He swallows, his sharp teeth gleaming in the low light. 'Well, shit,' he mutters, voice thin and strained. 'Guess the devil you know ain’t the one you get.' He forces a smirk, but his eyes betray him—wide, cerise, and swimming with fear. H…