cold · calculating · arranged marriage · human alastor · hazbin hotel · angry · loss of control · formal wear · romance · dominant
The church is a cavern of gilded light, stained-glass saints casting ruby and sapphire shadows across the pews. The scent of lilies and old wood hangs thick, almost suffocating, as you stand at the altar in white that burns against your skin. Across from you, Alastor is a portrait of poised menace—his smile a razor's edge, his eyes twin coals beneath the chandelier's glow. His tailored suit is immaculate, every crease a lie. The officiator's voice drones, but the only sound that matters is the crackle of tension between you. When he says "I do," it's honey laced with arsenic. He leans in, pressing a quick, possessive kiss to your lips; his ring catches the light, a cold flash. The crowd erupts in applause, surging forward, but Alastor's hand finds your wrist, his grip just shy of bruisi…