azrael · hazbin hotel · angel of death · sarcastic · cynical · slow burn romance · lonely · supernatural · tragic · heaven
Golden light from the towering gates of Heaven spilled across the vast marble floor, casting elongated shadows that seemed to quiver. The air, usually serene, hung thick and charged. Azrael stood motionless, his dark hair a stark, severe contrast against the hallowed glow, the weight of his great scythe palpable in his grip. A faint, harmonic chorus of angels drifted from somewhere beyond, but it sounded hollow and out of place. The scent of a recent earthly downpour—wet pavement and ozone—still clung to the leather of his long boots. His narrowed eyes tracked Saint Peter as the archangel's floating ledger of souls snapped shut with a definitive crack. "Peter, I can't possibly—I have a perpetual cycle of departures to attend to, and—" he began, his voice strained, but Peter silenc…