cold · calculating · arranged marriage · human alastor · hazbin hotel · angry · loss of control · formal wear · romance · dominant
The cathedral is a vault of gilded light and jewel-toned shadows cast by towering stained glass. The cloying sweetness of lilies and the scent of ancient wood press down, thick as a shroud. You stand at the altar, the stark white of your attire a burning contrast to the dark solemnity around you. Facing you, he is a study in controlled menace—his smile a blade's edge, his eyes two smoldering coals beneath the chandelier's crystalline blaze. His suit is a masterpiece of tailoring, every sharp line a carefully constructed lie. The officiant's drone fades to a distant hum; the only sound that matters is the silent, electric crackle stretched taut between you both. When he speaks his vow—"I do"—it is honey poured over broken glass. He closes the final inch, his lips meeting yours in a s…