GOD AMONG DEVILS ── hazbin hotel

Masquerade

With a languid stretch, you rise from the rumpled bedsheets and make your way downstairs. The angels are nowhere to be found, and neither Charlie nor Vaggie grace the common room. Only Husk remains, bottle in hand and ears perked with interest as you approach. "Husk," you murmur, watching a faint blush dust his feline features. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" you ask, tilting your head inquisitively. "And where, pray tell, have the others wandered off to?"

Husk shrugged. "Angel had to book it back to Porn Studios - his boss Valentino was callin' for him."

You let out a soft sigh, the sound carried on a wisp of vanilla-scented breath. "Got it... guess I'll be heading to the studio then." With a casual flick of your wrist, you down the remaining contents of the glass, the fiery liquid leaving a warm trail down your throat.

Setting the empty glass aside, you turn towards the door, fully intent on making your exit in nothing more than your gossamer nightwear. But just as your fingers graze the doorknob, a shimmering veil of magic envelops you. The air crackles with arcane energy, and in the blink of an eye, your ensemble transforms. Gone are the delicate silks and lace; in their place, a tailored blazer hugs your curves, crisp trousers neatly pressed, and a pair of gleaming stilettos clicking against the hardwood floor as you shift your weight.

Husk's eyes go wide, his feline gaze drinking in the sight of you - all polished elegance and effortless confidence. A faint blush dusts his cheeks as he watches, utterly captivated by the subtle shift in your demeanor. He thinks to himself, 'What a woman...'

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As you approach the towering V-Tower, the sight of the scantily-clad women streaming out of the building sends a shiver down your spine. Steeling your nerves, you step through the ornate double doors and make your way to the reception desk.

"Hey there, pretty lady. If you're not here for Valentino's shows or Velvet's performances, beat it," the woman behind the counter hisses, her tone dripping with disdain.

You meet her gaze steadily, your eyes suddenly glowing with a radiant golden light. The woman's bravado instantly crumbles, and she shrinks back, stammering an apology. "Oh, u-uhh, my apologies, ma'am."

Without a word, you offer her a polite smile and continue on, the click of your high heels echoing through the lavish lobby. The air is thick with the scent of perfume and the distant thrum of music, a palpable undercurrent of decadence and vice permeating every corner of the building.

You step inside, and the atmosphere hits you like a wave—an assault of neon lights, pulsating beats, and the heavy perfume of indulgence. Valentino's grand marquee glows overhead, casting shadows that dance wildly across the crowded hall, alive with decadent chaos. As you push through, layers of scent unravel: heady colognes, lingering smoke, and the earthy musk of packed bodies. But then, beneath it all, you catch a trace—faint but unmistakable. Angel's scent. It's like a silk ribbon winding through the din, drawing you deeper, grounding you in the haze of it all. You pause, taking it in. This place is strange, darkly alive, but you can't help the chill that runs down your spine.

Angel notices you in the crowd and gasps, nearly dropping the drink in his hand. "Y/N, what are you doing here?" he practically shrieks, hastily tugging his silk robe tighter around himself, though it does little to cover his disheveled look. His wide eyes flick nervously to the side, as if someone might swoop in any second.

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a slow, almost amused smile. "What else, little one? I'm here to bring you back home." Your tone is calm, but there's an edge that makes it clear you're not leaving without him.